Chapter 28 – The Dog, the Wolf, and the Rat
Days slipped by like grains of sand through an hourglass, the chill of February lingering in the air as Harry, Hermione, Neville, Tracey, Daphne, and Rigel grew increasingly restless. Their surveillance of Pansy had so far been fruitless, and they knew they couldn't keep merely watching forever.
"We can't keep trailing her aimlessly," Harry declared, his green eyes catching the candlelight as he glanced at his friends. "We need to do something more proactive."
Hermione nodded, her fingers nervously flipping the pages of a hefty potions textbook. "Harry's right. We have our next Potions class tomorrow. Maybe that's our chance."
Daphne's eyes met Rigel's, the feline's blue orbs communicating a complex language only they understood. "Rigel could investigate her room during Potions," she suggested.
Tracey grinned, her eyes twinkling like stars on a clear night. "Perfect! Pansy won't expect a cat snooping around," she said, her voice imbued with an irresistible enthusiasm.
With a collective nod, the group cemented their plan.
~~~o~~~
After breakfast, as Daphne, Tracey, and Rigel walked together toward the dungeon for Potions class, Rigel veered off at a fork in the corridor. His black fur was a dark smear against the stone as he darted down a less-travelled hallway. With an agile leap, he landed on a windowsill, pausing to glance back and ensure he hadn't been spotted before vanishing into the shadows of the Slytherin common room.
A magical cat flap materialised in the door to Pansy's room as Rigel approached, vanishing once he had slinked through. His blue eyes scanned the room. It was meticulously organised—each potion vial, each quill, each piece of parchment precisely in its place.
Rigel could sense various forms of magic—charms to keep clothes fresh, spells to keep away pests—but no dark magic. He remembered, however, that the Diadem could mask its magical signature. A thorough search ensued. He leapt onto her desk, sniffing around her books. He crawled under her bed, his whiskers twitching in the dust. He even poked his head into her closet, rifling through her robes and shoes with a paw.
His quest yielded nothing. Frustration started to mount, but then his eyes fell on a parchment lying casually on Pansy's nightstand. His eyes skimmed the letter, words manifesting in his feline consciousness. It was a letter from Pansy's parents, discussing a betrothal contract with Draco Malfoy. The possibility that she might become Lady Malfoy or Lady Black was floated.
A silent chuckle shook Rigel's small frame. If his Grandmother succeeded in her plans, Draco was going to be utterly shocked. This newfound information also explained Pansy's newfound boldness—she was playing for high stakes.
Mission not entirely fruitless, Rigel exited through the magical cat flap and scampered back to rejoin Daphne, a trove of context now added to their investigation. Though they had not found the Diadem, understanding the motive behind Pansy's behaviour was a win in itself. With this knowledge, Rigel returned, his paws silently carrying him back to Daphne, eager to share what he'd discovered.
Unseen by the professor, Rigel slipped into the Potions classroom. His eyes briefly scanned the room, then locked onto Daphne and Tracey who were already seated. Moving with feline grace, he silently navigated through the maze of desks and chairs until he reached them. With a small leap, he landed softly on Daphne's lap, curling up as though he had always belonged there.
Daphne felt a rush of memories flooding her mind, a magical sharing only possible between her and Rigel. She saw Pansy's room through his eyes, sensed the absence of dark magic, and read the contents of the letter on the nightstand. Suppressing a chuckle, she nodded slightly, acknowledging the importance of what Rigel had uncovered. It was a small comfort, knowing that Pansy wasn't involved in the disappearance of the Diadem, but it also left them back at square one.
~~~o~~~
That evening, the group convened in their usual study spot, the Room of Requirement, an air of expectancy hanging over them. "Rigel didn't find the Diadem," Daphne began, looking around at her friends, "but he did find a letter. Pansy's parents are discussing a betrothal contract for her with Draco Malfoy."
Mixed emotions flitted across the faces of her companions. Hermione's eyebrows rose at the thought, while Neville shook his head as if to clear it. Harry looked equally relieved and frustrated; relieved that Pansy wasn't tangled with dark magic, yet frustrated that their only lead had gone cold.
Tracey, ever the optimist, chimed in. "Well, at least we know she's not in cahoots with dark forces. Why don't we get on with our study session? No use dwelling on it."
Nods of agreement circled the group, their books and scrolls soon spread across the table like a paper landscape. The atmosphere, although tinged with disappointment, slowly regained its usual focus.
As quills danced over parchment, Tracey found herself locked in a playful exchange with Harry. Their glances met, teasing and slightly flirtatious. A soft chuckle from Tracey broke their reverie momentarily, but the tension, sweet and unspoken, remained. Sometimes, even in the midst of uncertainty and unanswered questions, life's smaller joys could not be ignored.
~~~o~~~
The next morning in the Great Hall, a sense of anticipation filled the air as students congregated for breakfast. The mouth-watering scent of fried eggs, sizzling bacon, and freshly baked bread filled the room. Harry and Hermione were hunched over a piece of parchment, deeply engrossed in a conversation about the upcoming Charms exam. "Honestly, Harry, you need to make sure you've mastered the Banishing Charm. It could be crucial for the exam," Hermione insisted, punctuating her words with an earnest look.
Just then, the Great Hall's large wooden doors swung open to reveal Fred and George Weasley. As they stepped inside, a ripple of chuckles and whispers cascaded through the hall. Curious, Harry's eyes followed the twins as they made their way towards the Gryffindor table. The twins seemed equally baffled, pausing every so often to turn around and inspect themselves. Each time, they found nothing out of the ordinary, yet all eyes remained on them.
When the twins finally walked past Harry's table, he saw it and couldn't help but chuckle. Attached to their backs were signs that read, "Failed Marauders." It was classic Lupin, a testament to his charm work that allowed everyone to see the signs except for the twins themselves.
Feeling a surge of sympathy, Harry hastily penned a note that read, "You've got signs on your backs saying 'Failed Marauders.' Looks like Lupin's work." With practised discretion, he slipped the folded paper into the twins' hands as they passed by him. Fred and George unfolded the note and exchanged knowing glances, their eyes narrowing mischievously.
With a synchronised flick of their wands, they uttered, "Finite Incantatem." The spell revealed the humiliating signs to them, floating like disgraced banners on their backs. Then, with another flick and a whispered incantation, the signs disintegrated into nothingness, leaving only the air where they had once been.
Harry watched them, a smile tugging at his lips but also a knot of concern in his stomach. This ongoing prank war between Lupin and the Weasley twins was entertaining, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was escalating. And with exams around the corner, now was not the time for distractions. Harry found himself hoping that the playful hostilities would come to an end soon, before things got out of hand.
~~~o~~~
Two months had dissolved into the sands of time, like snowflakes vanishing on a warm hearth. The castle of Hogwarts had seen the last remnants of winter relinquish their hold, as April ushered in a rebirth of flora and atmosphere. Yet the cyclical blossoming of spring couldn't alleviate every worry; within this tight-knit circle of friends, another mystery was afoot. Scabbers, the rat belonging to the Weasley twins, had gone missing. The twins' japes and jests had turned to whispered concerns and exchanged glances; the absence of Scabbers hung over them like a dark cloud, tempering their usual exuberance. They feared the worst, imagining all sorts of grim fates for their lost pet.
In the meantime, the group's magical pursuits had become a focal point of their lives at Hogwarts. Their study sessions, once a routine engagement, had evolved into significant milestones of progress and achievement. This was so apparent that even Professor McGonagall took notice, commending Neville for his marked improvement in Transfiguration. His newfound skill seemed almost miraculous compared to the hesitance and self-doubt he had displayed only months earlier.
Yet, the most striking testament to this group's progress was their collective mastery of the Patronus Charm. Even Neville, whose wand had once quivered in shaky hands, was now confident and focused. Each of them could conjure the shimmering shield of a Patronus, an unmistakable sign of advanced magical ability. This silvery veil had become a symbol of their unity and their personal growth, casting a protective light that was both literal and metaphorical in moments of darkness. It was as if their magical spirits were fighting back against not only the terrors that lurked in the night but also against the unspoken fears and unsolved mysteries that gnawed at them during the day.
With this sense of achievement still fresh, the castle's fervour was focused on another event of great import—the final Quidditch match of the year between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Today was a decisive day, a culmination of muscle, skill, and flying feathers. Whoever won this match would lift the Quidditch Cup, a trophy that had eluded Harry and his teammates so far.
In the Gryffindor locker room, a buzz of anticipation circled among the players. Harry, decked out in his Quidditch robes, felt a blend of excitement and apprehension settle in his stomach. The Firebolt at his side was like a silent promise—a promise of speed, agility, and hopefully, victory. Oliver Wood was pacing, as usual, laying out the final elements of their game plan. It was a strategy finely tuned to each member's strengths, from Harry's role as Seeker to the defensive moves of their Keeper and Chasers.
Finally stepping out onto the field, Harry was struck by the crispness of the April air, a welcoming mixture of damp soil and fresh grass. The sky was a painted canvas of soft blues and wispy clouds—benign conditions for a day of challenging Quidditch. As the team members ascended on their brooms to hover in wait, Harry's gaze floated toward the stands. His friends were easy to spot in their sea of Gryffindor scarves and banners. Even Luna, a Ravenclaw, had draped herself in Gryffindor colours—a silent but vibrant show of support that warmed Harry's heart.
The players took their positions, balancing in mid-air with the grace only seasoned flyers could manage. Handshakes were exchanged, a sportsmanlike formality tinged with the electricity of competition. All eyes turned to Madam Hooch, standing regal and poised with her whistle at the ready.
As Harry hovered there, the weight of the moment settled upon him. The cup was just one match away—one golden Snitch away. Yet, even as the nerves fluttered in his stomach, he felt a sense of readiness, of purpose. With friends watching and with the open sky ahead, Harry felt as though they could face whatever challenges this match would bring.
Madam Hooch's booming voice pierced the air "On my whistle! Three—two—one!" With a sharp trill, the Quaffle was released, and a cacophony of cheers erupted from the stands. The players shot up into the air like rockets.
Gryffindor's chasers, Alicia, Angelina, and Katie, quickly seized the Quaffle, displaying intricate manoeuvres as they dodged and swerved past the opposing Ravenclaw players. Meanwhile, Harry's eyes darted around the pitch, his Firebolt humming beneath him as he scoured the open sky for that elusive glint of gold—the Snitch.
Yet it was evident that Ravenclaw had come prepared. Their beaters swung their bats with calculated precision, sending Bludgers whizzing in Harry's direction every chance they got. The Ravenclaw team had clearly identified him, and his top-of-the-line Firebolt, as Gryffindor's trump card.
The tension on Harry's shoulders tightened like a coiled spring. Evading Bludgers was absorbing nearly all his attention; his search for the Snitch was compromised. A low growl of frustration bubbled in his throat. He knew that this was a pressing problem.
But as if seizing the opportunity, the Gryffindor chasers scored a goal, sending the red-and-gold portion of the crowd into a frenzy. The magical scoreboard flickered, updating the numbers.
Fred and George, ever resourceful, kept themselves busy safeguarding Harry from the vicious Bludgers, their bats swinging through the air with the grace of a maestro conducting an orchestra. Whenever Ravenclaw was in possession of the Quaffle, the twins targeted the Ravenclaw chasers; when Gryffindor had it, they went for Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker.
This final Quidditch match of the season was proving to be a breathtaking spectacle. The crowd's anticipation was palpable, hanging heavy in the air like a storm waiting to burst. Neither team was willing to yield the Cup without giving it their all, and every spectator could sense that the outcome was far from certain.
The tempo of the match escalated, a relentless back-and-forth that had the spectators on the edge of their seats. Ravenclaw's chasers proved their mettle by scoring an almost immediate counter-goal, eliciting cheers from the blue-and-silver crowd. Yet, Gryffindor, emboldened by their initial success and the promise of the coveted Cup, fought back hard. Another goal, and then another. Soon enough, Gryffindor was inching ahead, a small yet vital margin.
In the sky, Harry was locked in his own celestial battle. A flicker of gold finally caught his eye, but just as he leaned into a dive, a Bludger swooped in from his right. With a rapid roll and a swish of his Firebolt, Harry dodged, his heart in his mouth. The snitch had vanished again, lost in the fray.
Then, just when the tension seemed almost unbearable, Harry spotted it. High above the pitch, the Snitch fluttered like a miniature sun. With a jolt of adrenaline, Harry urged his Firebolt upwards, skyrocketing towards the tiny golden ball. Cho saw him and surged forward in pursuit, but Harry's Firebolt was swifter, more agile. Yet, just as he stretched out his fingers, another Bludger sped toward him, threatening to throw him off course.
In a split-second decision, Harry ducked beneath the Bludger while extending his right hand to its utmost limit. His fingers grazed the Snitch, and then he caught it. Just barely, but he caught it.
The crowd erupted into a cacophony of screams, cheers, and applause so loud it felt like the very foundations of Hogwarts might shake. The scoreboard flickered once more, now proclaiming Gryffindor as the champions of the Quidditch Cup. His teammates swarmed him in the air, enveloping him in a cloud of red and gold.
As Harry descended, still gripping the Snitch and struggling to process the euphoria of the win, his eyes caught a solitary figure at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It was the black dog he'd met before, its eyes shimmering with what could only be described as pride. Harry's heart swelled. Amid the roar of the crowd, the cheers of his friends, and the weight of the Cup soon to be in their hands, that quiet moment of recognition felt like a victory all its own.
The Gryffindor team descended smoothly onto the pitch, their broomsticks hovering just above the grass. They touched down, the excitement still etched on their faces. Madam Hooch walked to the centre of the pitch, her whistle gleaming in the sunlight.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," she called out, her voice magnified by a Sonorus spell. "It's my honour to present to you this year's Quidditch champions—Gryffindor!" As she spoke, the crowd's cheers reached a new crescendo, drowning out even the triumphant roars of the Gryffindor lions painted on the large banners.
Madam Hooch then handed the Quidditch Cup to Oliver Wood. The Cup glinted in the light, its surface polished to perfection, reflecting the red and gold that saturated the Gryffindor section of the stands. Holding the Cup aloft, Oliver's face was the embodiment of pure joy, as if a lifetime of dreams had been realised in that single moment.
He then began to pass the Cup to each of his teammates. "Brilliant work, Angelina, Fred, George," he exclaimed, his voice filled with pride. "Alicia, Katie, you two were absolutely unstoppable. And Harry, mate, you were out of this world. This Cup, it's not just mine; it's ours. It's the result of every one of you giving it your all."
As the Cup made its way from hand to hand, each Gryffindor player held it briefly. Their faces were radiant with a blend of pride and accomplishment, before eventually passing it back to Oliver.
"We'll be celebrating this tonight, right in the common room!" Oliver announced, his eyes dancing with excitement. As Oliver's announcement about the celebration reverberated through the air, a fresh wave of cheers engulfed the team. Eager feet touched down on the grassy pitch, brooms slung over shoulders. The atmosphere was electric, as if charged by a spell, and the students converged on the players like bees to honey.
Navigating through the sea of elated faces, Harry finally spotted his friends. Daphne, Tracey, Hermione, Neville, Astoria, Ginny, and Luna—all in vibrant Gryffindor colours—were making their way toward him. Even Rigel, the enigmatic black cat, was weaving through the crowd as if on a mission.
As they reached him, Daphne was the first to break into a run and threw her arms around him. "Harry, you were absolutely phenomenal! What a catch!" Her voice was tinged with awe and excitement.
Ginny was next, her eyes sparkling like the stars. "That was the most brilliant flying I've ever seen, Harry! You owned that sky!"
Hermione gave Harry a warm, proud hug, her eyes moist with emotion. "Harry, that was amazing," she whispered, unable to find more words.
Astoria and Luna joined the throng, offering their congratulations. Luna, wearing Gryffindor colours in an act of friendship that surprised even Harry, simply said, "Well done, Harry. Even the Wrackspurts couldn't distract you."
Astoria beamed, "That was truly something to watch, Harry. Congratulations!"
Neville stood there, grinning from ear to ear. "Mate, that was just...wow."
Finally, Tracey sidled up to Harry, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "You really know how to show off, don't you? But I must say, it's quite attractive when you do."
Harry chuckled, a flush creeping up his cheeks. "Well, if you say so, I might have to show off more often."
Just then, Rigel weaved his way to Harry's feet. The cat looked up, as if sharing in the triumph, his blue eyes gleaming like twin sapphires. Harry bent down and gave Rigel a gentle pat, feeling the soft fur beneath his fingers.
They were champions, and this was their moment—a tapestry of victory woven from hard-fought battles and camaraderie. As he looked around at the faces of his friends, enveloped in this mosaic of joy, Harry knew there was no other way he'd want this tapestry to be.
~~~o~~~
That evening, the Gryffindor common room was awash in a blaze of jubilant colour and clamour. Red and gold streamers swayed lazily from the ceiling, charmed to glow faintly. A feast of assorted snacks sat on the tables: treacle tarts, chocolate frogs, and even some butterbeers that Fred and George had managed to smuggle in. The atmosphere buzzed with laughter, conversations, and the distant strains of a magical jukebox.
Harry stood near the fireplace, a butterbeer in his hand, but his expression was oddly contemplative amid the celebration. He was essentially the star of the evening, yet a wistful look clouded his eyes. Many of his closest friends—Daphne, Tracey, Astoria, Ginny, Luna and even Rigel—were absent. They were not Gryffindors, and the staunch traditions of Hogwarts permitted no exceptions, not even on a night like this.
Hermione sensed Harry's melancholy and navigated her way through the crowd to stand beside him. "You did wonderfully today, Harry. We're all really proud of you."
"Thanks, Hermione," he replied, offering a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Neville ambled over, balancing a plate laden with snacks. "Brilliant game, Harry! That snitch catch was incredible—so athletic, especially with that bludger nearly on top of you!"
The trio found themselves retreating to a quieter corner, away from the liveliness that surrounded them. They chatted about the game, the recent Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, and even a bit about the upcoming end-of-year exams. But even as they conversed, Harry's thoughts would occasionally drift to the friends who couldn't join them tonight.
The clock on the wall ticked away relentlessly, and as its hands inched toward midnight, the common room slowly began to empty. Students trickled out, their eyes heavy with sleep but their spirits still high. Eventually, only a few stragglers remained, and the magical jukebox played its final, soft tune.
Harry looked around one last time, his eyes lingering on the empty spaces where other friends might have stood. The night had been a grand one, filled with revelry and triumph. Yet, as he climbed into his four-poster bed in the Gryffindor dormitory, he couldn't help but feel that victory, while sweet, was sometimes an incomplete joy.
~~~o~~~
The room was quiet, its ambiance saturated by the soft shadows of nighttime, only intermittently pierced by the flicker of a candle. Daphne was settled into her bed, her Charms textbook closed and set aside on her nightstand. Beside her, Rigel lay curled, his gaze meeting hers with a sentient understanding that belied his feline form. Just as they were about to surrender to sleep's gentle embrace, a soft 'plop' sliced through the silence.
Both Daphne and Rigel snapped to attention at the appearance of Kreacher. The old house-elf bowed, his voice a rustle of aged parchment. "Good evening, young Mistress and Master Rigel."
Pushing aside her duvet, Daphne sat up. "Kreacher, what brings you here at this hour?"
Kreacher glanced around before leaning in, as if to impart a secret. "Mistress—Madam Black—has instructed Kreacher to collect a sample of Master Rigel's blood."
A tinge of caution threaded through Daphne's voice. "For the purpose of exploring Blood Magic?"
Kreacher's nod was almost imperceptible. "Precisely, young Mistress."
The room seemed to hold its breath as Kreacher looked at Rigel, who sat attentively, clearly grasping the gravity of the request. The old house-elf extended his gnarled hand toward Rigel, palm upturned. With an almost undetectable flicker of his fingers, a small cut appeared on Rigel's front paw. The blood welled up, crimson and vital.
Kreacher held a small vial beneath the cut. Instead of dripping, the blood floated in a coherent globule, directed by the house-elf's innate, wandless magic. It filled the vial to the halfway mark before Kreacher's fingers moved again, sealing the cut as if it had never existed. Rigel's eyes met Kreacher's, the weight of what had just occurred passing between them in a silent exchange of understanding.
Sealing the vial tightly, Kreacher pocketed it and turned his attention back to Daphne. "Has a decision been reached concerning Mistress's proposal?"
Daphne looked into the eyes of both Rigel and Kreacher, aware that her response carried the weight of futures untold. "We will go through with her plan," she confirmed.
The corners of Kreacher's eyes crinkled ever so slightly, as if touched by a modest joy. "Kreacher will relay this—and the sample—to Mistress," he said, bowing low before he disappeared with a soft 'plop,' leaving behind a room suddenly filled with a newfound sense of purpose.
In the silent room, their physical eyes met, but it was through their mystical connection that they truly conversed.
"Blood Magic," Rigel's thoughts radiated with a mixture of awe and curiosity. "Grandmother is really pushing the boundaries, isn't she? She's leaving no stone unturned in her efforts to return me to my human form."
Daphne felt the resonance of his sentiments, her own thoughts weaving into the intricate fabric of their mental dialogue. "I must admit, I'm equally surprised, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Transforming someone back to their original state can't be a small feat. I just hope she actually succeeds."
A pulse of agreement travelled through their connection, as Rigel's thoughts brushed against her own. "I share your hopes."
The room darkened as the candles flickered and snuffed themselves out, and the outside world seemed to fade away. Their minds, ever connected, began to drift into the realm of dreams. It was a shared space they had been crafting for months—a sanctuary built of imagination and emotion. Here, Daphne's ideas of serene gardens mingled with Rigel's notions of towering mountains, creating a landscape as vivid as reality itself.
Their thoughts intertwined as they ventured deeper into their joint dreamscape, each adding layers of imagination to enrich their shared experience. It was a world entirely of their own making, and as they drifted further into it, the harsh lines between reality and dream began to blur, leaving them to explore this sanctuary.
~~~o~~~
Weeks had slipped through the hourglass of time, bringing with them the swells of triumph, laughter, and study sessions. But amidst it all, Harry had been brewing something less academic—a little scheme spiced with a pinch of mischief and seasoned with a dash of payback. The Weasley twins, ever the connoisseurs of mischief, were more than willing to lend their expertise.
They had crafted a unique powder, its properties designed to achieve a singular effect: it would make the wearer of any garment appear flat—erasing curves, flattening the chest, diminishing the allure. The target? Tracey Davis, the persistent tease who had so brazenly sent that letter at New Year's. Harry figured it was high time to level the playing field, so to speak.
The plan was simple. As Tracey stepped into her bathroom to begin her morning routine, Rigel would stealthily enter her room, locate her robes, and sprinkle them with the magical powder. According to their calculations and the twins' assurances, the effect would last about 48 hours—but only while she wore the treated robe.
Rigel waited, his thoughts a complex blend of anticipation and meticulous planning. The moment came—Tracey's door closed with a soft click, and Rigel seized his chance. Slipping into the room with feline grace, he spotted her neatly folded robes on the bed. Swiftly but carefully, he sprinkled the enchanted powder over the garment. The robes seemed to absorb the fine grains, leaving no visible sign of their newfound properties. Perfect.
With an intuitive sense of timing, Rigel sensed that his window was closing. In a blur, he darted out of the room, vanishing into the hallway just as Tracey's bathroom door creaked open. And so, the seeds of the prank were sown, watered by the silent chuckles of a cat and the eager anticipation of a wizard in on the joke.
Rigel returned to Daphne's room, his tail high and his body full of suppressed glee. Yet, he kept his joy tucked away, hidden from Daphne, who wasn't in on the prank. She just exited the bathroom from her morning routine. A slight tilt of her head indicated it was time to go for breakfast.
As was their custom, Daphne and Rigel were to meet Tracey, but today, the atmosphere was charged with an unusual tension. When they arrived, Tracey quickly ushered them into her room. Her face was a mix of confusion and concern, and the cause was painfully obvious. Tracey, who usually flaunted a balanced set of curves, appeared utterly flat. Her robes hung on her like a sack, concealing the chest and rear she was usually so proud of.
"When I peek down," she explained, her voice tinged with disbelief, "I can see them. They're there. But from the outside, it's like they've vanished."
Daphne studied her friend's condition, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "It sounds like you've been pranked. Someone seeking a little revenge, perhaps?"
Tracey's eyes narrowed and a wry grin formed on her lips. "Harry," she muttered. Her face flushed with a mock indignation that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Well," she continued, pulling her flat-looking robes about her, "I can play at this game too. Come on, let's go. I'm suddenly in the mood for some bacon and perhaps a little counter-teasing."
At her beckoning, Daphne and Rigel fell into step beside her, leaving the room and making their way to the Great Hall. Breakfast would be served soon, but for Tracey, it seemed the real feast would be plotting her retaliation. And Rigel, his hidden mirth still flickering within, couldn't help but feel that the day ahead would be anything but ordinary.
The trio entered the Great Hall, the enchanted ceiling above them mimicking the bright morning sky. As they took their seats at the Slytherin table, Tracey garnered more than a few curious looks from their classmates. Her usually fetching appearance was marred by her unnaturally flat silhouette, but no one dared to speak a word. They were Slytherins, after all, trained in the art of holding their tongues when it was expedient to do so.
Yet, throughout breakfast, Tracey threw sharp, dangerous glances across the hall toward the Gryffindor table. Her eyes met Harry's for a moment, and a knowing grin flashed between them. Oh, he would pay for this, she silently vowed.
When the final crumbs of toast had been eaten and the last sips of pumpkin juice consumed, they regrouped with Harry, Hermione, and Neville. Defence Against the Dark Arts was the next class on the agenda, a subject they all shared.
Tracey wasted no time. As soon as she was within earshot, her words snapped through the air. "Harry, I know you're behind this little spectacle," she said, her voice rich with mock fury. "Do you find it amusing?"
Harry did his best to feign ignorance, but a hint of mischief sparkled in his eyes. "I've got to say, I much preferred your old look, Tracey."
Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring ever so slightly. "You know what they say about payback, Harry. I'll make sure you squirm for every second you've embarrassed me."
Harry swallowed, a wash of regret suddenly dampening his previous amusement. Tracey was a force to be reckoned with, he knew that. Yet, as he glanced back at her fuming face, a part of him still found the whole situation incredibly funny. After all, in the grand tapestry of Hogwarts life, it was these small, absurd moments that often stood out the most.
~~~o~~~
The Great Hall bustled with the lunchtime crowd, chattering students and clinking dishes filling the air with lively energy. Harry unfolded a hastily scribbled note he had just received via owl. It was from Hagrid, inviting him for tea after classes and informing him that he'd found Scabbers, the Weasley twins' lost rat.
The clock on the Great Hall's wall seemed to mock Harry as he read Hagrid's note once more. With every tick, the hands inched closer to the time he was supposed to be at a final Quidditch meeting with Oliver Wood. It was a gathering to discuss the future of the team in anticipation of Oliver's departure.
"Hermione, Neville," Harry began, leaning towards his friends, "Hagrid's found Scabbers, the twins' missing rat. He wants me to pick him up after classes. Any chance one of you could go in my stead?"
Hermione glanced at the towering stack of books beside her. "Sorry, Harry, but I have to return these to the library before they're overdue. Madam Pince will have my head if I'm late again."
"And I'd rather not wander the grounds alone with Dementors still floating about," Neville added, a nervous expression crossing his face.
"Great," Hermione piped in, "that settles it. Neville, you can help me carry these books back to the library later."
With no other options left, Harry sighed and refolded the note, tucking it back into his pocket. His eyes scanned the Great Hall before landing on the one person who might be willing to help—Daphne. She was sitting at the Slytherin table, chatting idly with Tracey.
Taking a deep breath to ready himself for the walk across the divided hall, Harry pushed his chair back and set off. Each step felt like an eternity as he crossed the imaginary boundary separating Gryffindor and Slytherin. But this was important; the Weasley twins were his mates and Scabbers had been missing for months.
Finally reaching Daphne, he took a moment to steel himself for the request he was about to make, all while trying to look casual and not attract too much attention. After all, a Gryffindor approaching the Slytherin table was not a common sight.
"Daphne, could you do me a favour?" Harry held out the crumpled note for her to read.
She scanned it briefly and then quirked an eyebrow. "Can't the Weasley twins go pick up their own rat?"
"They're on the Quidditch team too, so they'll be in the meeting. Please, Daphne," Harry implored, his voice tinged with a touch of desperation.
After a moment's hesitation, Daphne sighed, "Alright, fine. But I'm not going alone. Tracey, you're coming with me."
Tracey, who was engrossed in her food, looked up with a start. "Oh, I am, am I? Just voluntelling me like that? I must say, I'm shocked at your audacity," she replied, her voice thick with mock horror.
Daphne rolled her eyes playfully, "Well, you owe me one for that History of Magic essay."
Tracey let out a dramatic sigh, "Alright, you win. Let's go and rescue Scabbers then. But remember, Harry," her eyes glinted menacingly, "I haven't forgotten your little stunt."
Harry grinned, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, fully aware that she was still plotting revenge.
Harry's eyes twinkled as he expressed his gratitude. "Thanks, both of you. I really owe you one for this."
"Trust me, we'll remind you," Tracey said, still holding onto a semblance of her earlier menace, while Daphne gave a more reassuring nod.
Later, under a sky layered with thick grey clouds, Daphne, Tracey, and Rigel wandered down the sloping grounds towards Hagrid's hut. The atmosphere was tinged with the electric charge of an impending storm, and a light wind brushed past them, riffling their robes and tickling Rigel's fur.
"So, do you think Professor Binns will actually make the final exam hard this time?" Tracey mused as they walked, her eyes squinting against the cloud-muted sunlight.
Daphne chuckled, "Given his track record, I wouldn't count on it. But still, best to review his interminable lectures just in case."
Reaching the hut, Daphne raised her hand and knocked on the wooden door, which soon creaked open to reveal Hagrid's bearded, smiling face. "Oh, it's yeh. Come in, come in," he said warmly, standing aside to let them enter.
Setting their school bags aside, Daphne explained, "Harry couldn't make it today because of a final Quidditch team meeting. He'll visit soon though."
Hagrid nodded appreciatively, "That's alright, glad yeh could come. Can I get yeh some tea?"
Within moments, they found themselves seated at Hagrid's rustic table, steaming mugs of tea before them. The room was filled with the earthy aroma of the brew, mixed with the scent of damp wood and Hagrid's menagerie of magical creatures. Rigel, sensing the casual atmosphere, curled up near the hearth.
As they sipped their tea, Hagrid regaled them with stories of magical creatures he'd encountered recently—each tale more fantastical than the last. Daphne and Tracey listened attentively, interjecting with questions and laughter, while Rigel purred softly in agreement. Time seemed to drift lazily in the cosy cabin, and for a few moments, the pressures of school and upcoming exams seemed far away.
With the final sips of tea lingering warmly in their stomachs, Hagrid reached under the table and presented them with a small cage. Inside was Scabbers, the Weasley twins' mischievous rat, who twitched his whiskers in what seemed like relief.
"Give this back to Fred an' George, will yeh?" Hagrid requested, a note of stern concern in his voice. "An' remind 'em to be more careful with the little fella in future."
"We will, Hagrid," Daphne assured him. With that, the trio made their farewells, and the door closed behind them with a heartfelt thud.
As they reached the midpoint of the hill, Tracey's face fell. "Merlin's beard! I forgot my school bag at Hagrid's."
Daphne sighed, looking up at the overcast sky as if requesting patience. "I'm not climbing this hill again," she declared. Setting the caged rat gently on the grassy ground, she leaned back against a sturdy tree. "I'll wait here with Scabbers and Rigel. Go get your bag."
"Alright," Tracey agreed, turning on her heel and sprinting back towards the hut, her robe billowing behind her.
As Daphne stood there, the sky's heavy clouds seemed to loom closer, as if sharing her sentiment about the extra trek. Rigel, sensing the momentary pause, brushed up against her leg with an air of feline grace, as though offering silent support. She smiled, her hand descending to stroke his soft fur, the repetitive motion comforting in its familiarity.
Together they waited, Daphne's gaze distant yet thoughtful, and Rigel purring softly at her feet, each in their own way finding solace in the simple act of waiting for a friend.
The tranquillity that had settled around Daphne and Rigel shattered like fragile glass as a low, menacing growl reverberated through the air. Both heads snapped towards the source, and there it was—the large black dog that had been the subject of countless conversations among Harry and their friends. Its fur was dark as midnight, its eyes gleaming like twin coals set against the fading daylight.
Daphne's hand closed around her wand, its familiar wood offering scant comfort. Her heart raced, each beat a drum of war in her chest. Rigel, no stranger to danger, bristled beside her, his feline eyes narrowing to azure slits. Together, they set themselves in a defensive posture, ready for whatever the dog would do next.
The air grew taut, like a bowstring pulled tight, poised on the precipice of release. In a move too swift for its bulk, the dog lunged. Daphne gasped and Rigel hissed, each dodging to the side, ready to strike back. But instead of attacking, the dog executed an abrupt turn, teeth clamping down on the metal bars of Scabbers' cage. Before either could react, it bolted into the underbrush, its retreat marked by a flurry of rustling leaves.
"Rigel, after it!" Daphne's thoughts flooded their mental channel, a torrent of urgency and adrenaline. Rigel was already in motion, his powerful legs a blur of grace and speed, yet even he couldn't match the dog's pace. It vanished into the gathering shadows, leaving only the rustle of its passage as proof of its existence.
Daphne's thoughts crackled with intensity, meeting Rigel's own electric curiosity. "We have to follow. We need to know," she urged through their connection.
"Agreed. The time for questions is over. Now we seek answers," Rigel responded, his thoughts a steady pulse against her own frenzied state.
Gathering her robes around her, Daphne took off, her shoes pounding rhythmically on the woodland floor. Rigel darted beside her, a swift shadow keeping pace. Soon, the dark silhouette of the Whomping Willow loomed ahead, its gnarled branches swaying as if beckoning them closer. Just as they reached it, they saw the last flicker of the dog's tail disappearing into the earth beneath the tree.
"There's a secret tunnel here, under the tree," Rigel imparted, his words tinged with a mixture of awe and foreboding.
A shiver snaked down Daphne's spine, as if her very bones resonated with the weight of their decision. With the unknown lying just beyond their reach, and veiled in the air thick with impending revelation, she felt as though they stood at the threshold of a world untold. Yet, resolve crystallised within her, sharper and more unyielding than any spell.
"Let's go. It's time to lift the curtain on this mystery," Daphne's thoughts reverberated clearly in their shared space, echoed by Rigel's silent agreement.
Rigel's eyes locked onto Daphne's, a conduit for the unspoken understanding that flowed between them. "There's a knot on the Whomping Willow," he communicated through their unique mental connection. "Press it and the tree calms down. I can reach it; I'm too small for the tree to notice."
A single, definitive nod from Daphne gave Rigel his marching orders. Her heart pounded as she watched him gracefully navigate the perilous labyrinth of the Whomping Willow's thrashing branches. It was a high-stakes ballet; each step he took was a precarious gambit, an intricate interplay of risk and daring. He reached the knot and pressed it. The branches ceased their thrashing.
"It's safe now, Daphne. You can—" The thoughts abruptly severed, cut off like the final note of a symphony interrupted.
The atmosphere charged, time elongating, stretching until each second felt like an eternity. A scarlet bolt of light lanced past Daphne, striking Rigel with an undeniable intensity. His body crumpled, falling limp at the base of the tree, the air knocked out of his small form.
Emotion surged, a tidal wave of horror and fear, inundating Daphne's senses. It was a stunner. Rigel was stunned—unconscious and vulnerable. The shock of it left her momentarily paralyzed, a stab of vulnerability piercing through her as if she, too, had been struck by the spell.
Snapping back to reality, years of combat training flooded her veins like adrenaline, awakening instincts long ingrained. Twisting on her heel, she conjured a Protego shield while completing her turn, each movement fine-tuned by relentless practice and muscle memory.
But her attacker was already a step ahead, another blazing spell of red hurtling toward her with venomous intent. Her shield materialised just in time, a magical barrier rippling into existence before her. It lasted only a heartbeat. The incoming spell collided with a sound like the earth itself cracking, and her Protego shattered like glass, disintegrated by the overwhelming force behind the attacker's magic.
Thrown off balance, her world tilted, and she stumbled backwards. The sensation of falling engulfed her, and she collided with the cold, hard earth. The impact jolted through her, and her wand skittered away from her outstretched fingers, landing just beyond her reach. The chill of the soil seeped through her robes, but it was the chill of her own vulnerability, her own mortality, that consumed her.
Daphne's eyes, still brimming with a mix of desperation and defiance, flicked upwards to find the visage of her attacker. The face that met her was not one she expected—Professor Lupin, his countenance a canvas of grim solemnity. For a fleeting instant, his eyes met hers, an abyss of regret and stern necessity, locking her in a silent conversation she couldn't understand.
But there was no time for deciphering expressions or nuances; the glaring tip of Lupin's wand flickered, casting another stunner. It moved through the air as if in slow motion, a fatalistic scarlet comet on a collision course. The spell connected squarely with her chest, its impact surging through her like an electric shock.
Her world went dark. Her body went limp, robbed of all sensation, as she crumpled to the ground. Unconsciousness enveloped her like a shroud, sealing her off from the looming questions, the penetrating dread, and the silenced mental link with Rigel. All that remained was the empty black canvas of oblivion.
