Hedwig, Mrs. Norris, Scabbers, and Crookshanks get up to no good in the thrilling second episode of

"GRYFFINDOR NIGHTS"

…a serial tale of epic bravery, treachery beyond description, and dirty socks.

Night had fallen again over the warm beds in the boys' dormitory of Gryffindor Tower. All was quiet, and still, apart from a comfortable snuffle or the occasional half-coherent mumble. Nothing was keeping the Gryffindor boys up tonight, no worries from the day intruded on their dreaming heads to disturb their well-deserved rest.

…Mrs. Norris had seen to that.

Underneath Neville Longbottom's bed, what had seemed for all the world like a large and evil-smelling clump of well worn socks opened two fierce, luminous eyes. Two surprisingly dexterous forepaws fiddled with the valve on a very small tank of something—the wheel made the tiniest possible squeek-squeeks as it ceased its subliminal hiss.

Abandoning the tank, and tugging a cat-sized gas mask from her face, Mrs. Norris padded from under the bed. All was well. The boys would sleep until morning, and no harm done--except to the one who had been so unwise as to aid the Latvians in their scheme to introduce an obscure strain of beriberi into the sheep population of New Zealand on the behest of certain Paraguayan manufacturing interests, who were poised to corner the markets in the relevant vaccine and, for some reason, in novelty pet toys.

Or something like that. Mrs. Norris barely understood it herself. But she was still one of the best damn field agents Britain had to offer, and she was here to do her job.

Which bed was it? Thomas something, or something Thomas, it was. There. Third from the right. She padded forward, until a voice from behind her stopped her cold.

"We meet again, Mrs. Norris," hooted Hedwig, who had fluttered soundlessly down from one of the four-posters, and now perched huge and ominous atop one of Ron's weatherbeaten galoshes. "Or should I say, Operative N-3?"

"Indeed we do…Hedwig," hissed the cat. "Or should I say, Agent Ratcatcher?"

"As you like," said the owl, preening at one of her milk-white shoulders. "I'm afraid I cannot allow you to conduct your business here, N-3."

"We have no option, Ratcatcher. If the boy Thomas is not neutralized, you yourself can say goodbye to that orange dingle-ball you so love to chew on."

"I think not, N-3," said Hedwig, chuffing softly by way of a laugh. "You see, my organization has made a very profitable…arrangement…with our Paraguayan friends, not the least part of which guarantees a supply of squeaky rubber hamburgers to me…and to my allies."

The owl extended a long, downy wing. "Join with me, N-3."

Mrs. Norris sneered. "Never," she spat. "I don't even like rubber hamburgers."

"Did I mention the contract also grants control of the world's brightly-colored-feather-on-a-stick factories to the very same allies?"

Mrs. Norris bared her fangs at the enormous bird and hissed. Her mission was more important than any number of maddening, cruelly tantalizing brightly colored feathers on sticks!

"Very well," sighed Hedwig. "Agent Weasley, you know what to do."

"Agent Weasley?" Mrs. Norris demanded, her professional detachment shaken. She should have known, what with him skulking around at all hours, and getting into things… That Weasley boy had been feeding information to Ratcatcher all along!

"Yessir, Ratcatcher sir," said a tiny asthmatic voice from what looked to the casual eye like a discarded box of crisps. There was a click.

That wasn't Ron's voice, Mrs. Norris realized. That was much more like…

"A-5! You traitorous bastard!" the cat yowled, launching herself headlong at the dented cardboard box. But it was too late. The box buzzed and hummed, emitting from a cleverly-concealed nozzle a thick oily mist, derived from the most potent strains of catnip that Paraguay had to offer.

The world had already begun to spin as Mrs. Norris landed, badly, and stumbled over the thick bristly end of Harry Potter's Nimbus Two Thousand. Not one of her four legs would do what she wanted it to.

"You won't get away with this," she managed, before her coordination gave out entirely and she lapsed into a world of silvery noise and brightly-colored feathers floating everywhere.

"Won't I?" gloated Hedwig. "Sweet dreams, N-3. Weasley!"

"Wha?" Scabbers poked his muzzle from the box of crisps. He was munching half a jelly bean.

"Good work. Aid Agent Gingersnap in dragging that," said Hedwig, descending from the boot to poke at Mrs. Norris with a taloned foot, "to the boys' lavatory. I trust all the equipment is in place?"

"Yessir," wheezed the rat.

********** A long commercial break later… **********

Mrs. Norris tugged groggily at her straps. Alas, they were much stronger than she'd be able to break, and cunningly buckled. No, she would not get free on her own. This was grim indeed.

The small steel table she was affixed so firmly to rotated, and some of the room came into view. It was white, tiled, and dim light glinted from fixtures of unknown purpose here and there.

No, she knew the purpose of THAT fixture. This was a loo. That was the sink's U-bend. And that was a faucet, and…

"You bastards!"

They had strapped her down under a cold-water faucet in the huge communal sink. Scabbers perched on the faucet itself, looking very pleased with himself. Hedwig perched on the enameled edge of the sink. There was a soft sound of something prowling around underneath the sink, out of Mrs. Norris's view.

"A-5…how could you? We trusted you, by God."

The rat grinned and picked a bit of popcorn out of his teeth. "Sorry, N-3. I get a better codename this way. And a glittery blue super-ball."

"How long have you been a mole, you rat?"

Hedwig chose this moment to clear her throat and cough up a small pellet. "I hate to interrupt this truly vintage moment," she cooed, "but we do have some business to attend to."

"Do you expect me to talk, Hedwig?" said Mrs. Norris.

"No, Mrs. Norris," replied Hedwig, flicking her tail. "I expect you to become wet, cold, and miserable."

A marmalade tabby head with an oddly squashed-in face poked up over the rim of the sink. It was Crookshanks. Mrs. Norris's heart sank in her chest—Ratcatcher had got her talons into everyone.

"Hello, N-3," Crookshanks purred. "We'll be ready in just a moment."

Mrs. Norris had known when she'd signed on that her job might lead to pain, torture, and even death. There was nothing she couldn't face for the sake of Queen and country, she'd told herself. But she hadn't counted on being doused with COLD WATER. The inhumani—er…the…it was abominable! Unconscionable!

Crookshanks leaned in closer. His breath smelled faintly of sardines. "Don't worry, N-3," he whispered. "It's me, HG-9. We'll have you out of here in no time. Just follow my lead."

Tears of gratitude filled Mrs. Norris's orange eyes. HG-9 was near-legendary.

"I don't need to tell you to look terrified, do I?" A sly smile crossed Crookshank's flat face as he dropped back down to the base of the sink.

"Gingersnap!" Hedwig hooted imperiously. "Engage the mechanism!"

"Right away, sir," said Crookshanks, and swiftly turned a crank full-circle.

A blast of icy water sprayed everywhere, in needle-sharp jets. A sabotaged washer geysered Scabbers bodily from the faucet and bounced him off the nearest stall—and the pressure of the jet was such that Mrs. Norris received no more than a gentle misting. A hole bored in the piping caught Hedwig square in her beak with another gout, sending her sodden and squawking blindly to the tiled floor.

"Come on!" Crookshanks hissed, expertly detaching Mrs. Norris's cuffs. "We don't have much time!"

"Right!" agreed Mrs. Norris, and the two of them bounded from the bathroom while Hedwig and Scabbers fought to regain their footing.

"I still need to reclaim the beriberi sample," panted Mrs. Norris. "I can take it from here, HG-9."

"Do that, N-3. Good luck." Crookshanks took a left at full speed down the hall that would lead him eventually to the Gryffindor girls' dormitory. Soon he was out of sight.

Mrs. Norris ran hell-bent toward the boys' dormitory—how long did she have before Hedwig and Scabbers recovered? There would be no time to warn the boy, or teach him the lesson she'd intended, Mrs. Norris decided. Not now that her mission had been compromised. She needed to get that sample, and get back to Filch's office where she was safe from the blasted owl.

"Blueberry buckle," she puffed at the Gryffindor door-guard. The Fat lady obediently swung open. And Mrs. Norris made the run of her life up two flights of stairs, through two sets of robes hung up to dry, almost into a truly disgusting cup of congealed butterbeer, and toward her objective. There is was, on the Thomas boy's nightstand. A bag of Bernie Bott's Every Flavor beans.

Every flavor, the bag claimed. Including, in this case, 'Berry berry'. Truly every flavor. The boy was lucky he hadn't got around to eating any. She jumped lightly up onto the bed, seized the bag between her teeth, and in short order was back in Filch's office.

Safe. She breathed, for the first time in what felt like a long time.

"Headquarters," she murmured over her subvocal comms unit.

"Go'headN-3!" hooted a very excitable-sounding voice into her inner ear.

"Mission compromised, Operative A-5 employed by Agent Ratcatcher and associates."

"Weheardweheard," piped the Headquarters comm with an odd Doppler effect, as though the speaker were circling the room very quickly as he spoke. "OperativeHG-9dispatchedtoscene, istarget'quired?"

"Target is acquired, Headquarters. Ready for handoff and disposal at soonest opportunity."

"Rightright," hooted HQ. "Leavethebeansinnabag in Filch's mopbucket'morrownightatnine!"

"Will do. N-3 out."

"He'quarters OUT!" hooted HQ, and her comm went silent.

Mrs. Norris padded over to her much-used wicker basket and gratefully curled up on the worn quilt inside. Purring softly to herself, she drifted into a much-needed nap. Another day at Hogwarts, another mission completed. Life was good.

 ********** Closing credits begin to roll…but then… **********

"I don't feel so good, Ratcatcher," complained Scabbers, shivering.

"That's because we're cold and wet, you idiot rat." Hedwig gave a great full-body ruffle in attempt to dry herself.

"Well, apart from that, even. I feel really bad. I think I might have eaten something that didn't sit well."

"You eat everything. What did you have recently?"

"Some stale popcorn…half an old ham sandwich…a Bott's bean…"

Hedwig coughed up another pellet in disgust. "What flavor?"

"Sor of a berry one…I think…"

"Ugh."

__________________________________________________

Author's Note: Thankew for reading. This chapter wrote itself, really, the idea just floated out of the blue and smacked me in the face this afternoon. It all started with this:

"At last we meet, Mrs. Norris…or should I say, Mr. Bond?"

And yes, Pigwidgeon is staffing HQ.