The path to Hogsmeade wound through mist-touched trees, crunching with frost and gravel under their boots. Just ahead, the rooftops of the village peeked through bare branches—pointed and tiled, most already dusted with early snow like sugar on a tart.

It was Harry's first look at the place outside of maps and overheard stories, and even from a distance, it felt different. Magical in a way Hogwarts wasn't—less structured, more alive. Like the cobbled stones themselves had grown up with wands and laughter.

"Right," said Hermione, her breath fogging the air, "we start at Honeydukes, obviously."

"Obviously," Neville echoed loyally.

They weren't the only ones. A handful of third-years had surged ahead already—Parvati and Lavender squealing about getting matching enchanted mittens, Seamus and Dean arguing over whether to hit Zonko's or The Three Broomsticks first.

Ron, sulking slightly, had rejoined them somewhere on the path, muttering that Seamus had "the conversational depth of a gnome" and sniffing dramatically every time Harry laughed at something Hermione said.

But even Ron couldn't sulk forever. Not when they turned the corner into the village proper.

Hogsmeade was a postcard in motion. Shop windows glowed with enchanted lanterns. Steam curled from chimneys. Charms twinkled over the rooftops like festive wards, and the air smelled like cinnamon, frost, and old woodsmoke.

Harry spotted the first of the security detail near Scrivenshaft's—robes too neat, gaze too casual. A second lingered by the post office, sipping tea from a flask and not bothering to hide the wand strapped to their forearm. There were others—he could feel them more than see them. Not just there for show.

Hermione noticed too. "Subtle," she murmured.

"They don't need to be," Harry replied. "They're not hiding. Just... watching."

It was reassuring in a way—unlike the silence around the Dementors, this presence was clean. Intentional.

And then they turned a corner near Honeydukes.

Draco Malfoy was already there.

He leaned casually against the wall outside the sweet shop, gloved hands in his pockets, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle like decorative curses. He nodded once when he saw Harry—cool, acknowledging, and—oddly—not hostile.

Harry gave a half-nod back.

Ron scowled.

Draco caught it.

"Well," Draco drawled, "someone looks like they got out on the wrong side of the Thestral."

Ron stepped forward. "Don't start, Malfoy."

"Me? I was just enjoying the village. You're the one with the face like a foot."

"Careful."

"Why?" Draco said, pushing off the wall. "You'll throw a sweet at me?"

Ron's wand was out in an instant.

Hermione grabbed his arm. "Ron, stop."

"Leave it," Harry said, stepping in too. "It's not worth it."

But Ron yanked his arm free. "Don't need either of you sticking up for me."

Then he stalked off—jaw set, shoulders hunched—toward the alley behind Zonko's.

Dean and Seamus appeared just in time to see him vanish around the corner.

"Is he alright?" Seamus asked.

"No," Hermione said flatly. "Go after him. He's your partner today."

Dean and Seamus exchanged a glance, then took off at a jog.

Draco watched them go and gave Harry a look that was almost—almost—a shrug. He meandered off with Crabbe and Goyle.

Neville adjusted his scarf. "Well... that was rubbish."

"Come on," Hermione said, linking her arm through his. "Let's explore."

Honeydukes was everything.

Shelves crammed with sweets, cases glowing with magical treats—Fizzing Whizzbees floated in glass jars, colour-changing sugar quills danced on displays, and a massive clockwork chocolate frog attempted to escape its case every hour on the dot.

Hermione gravitated toward the enchanted peppermint bark that played musical notes when bitten. Neville found a licorice wand that whistled when swung. Harry, wide-eyed, turned full-circle twice before finally grabbing a handful of Cauldron Cakes and a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

Eventually, they did move on—past Scrivenshaft's with its ever-filling ink pots, past the little post office where the owls blinked sleepily under charm-warmed perches. They stopped at Zonko's for a bit, where Fred and George were showing off a Nose-Biting Teacup to a group of terrified second-years, and then cut through the alley near Gladrags Wizardwear where enchanted mannequins spun slowly in frosted windowpanes.

They ended up at The Three Broomsticks.

Inside was warm, the air thick with spice and chatter and the golden fizz of freshly poured butterbeer. Madam Rosmerta winked at them as she passed their table.

"I could live here," Neville said, cheeks pink and hands wrapped around his mug.

Hermione, already pulling a book from her satchel, smiled faintly. "Not before exams, you couldn't."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment. Just looked around. The light. The warmth. The way everything felt safe, like the moment before a snowstorm.

"It's better than I imagined," he said quietly.

After a bit they decided to explore a bit more, they headed up the slope past the end of the main road, toward the low hill behind the village. The wind picked up slightly here, carrying the faint sound of chimes and something old beneath it.

They wandered further, past the end of the high street and up the sloping hill where the air turned colder. The path narrowed, flanked by low stone walls dusted in frost. Wind stirred dry leaves in small, rustling eddies.

Then they saw it.

The Shrieking Shack loomed beyond a brittle wooden fence—windows boarded or broken, the roof sagging like an old man's shoulders. It stood crooked against the pale sky, silent and somehow listening.

Neville shivered slightly. "Gran says no one goes near it. Says the screams during the full moon can curdle bone."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There's probably a logical explanation."

"Logical things don't usually sound like that," Neville muttered.

Harry stepped a little closer, hands in his pockets. "Could be a good place to hide."

Hermione blinked. "Hide?"

He shrugged. "Just... it's out of the way. Easy to ward. People stay clear."

Neville frowned. "That's sort of exactly why it's terrifying."

But Hermione was watching Harry closely now.

"Do you think someone is hiding there?"

Harry didn't answer.

Not out loud.

Down the slope, behind a curve in the hill, Elijah Dorne stood half in shadow, wand hidden beneath the folds of his coat. The shimmer of his mirror faded as he lowered it.

His eyes, however, stayed on the Shack.

He hadn't known the stories. Hadn't needed to. But he was watching now.

And the land had begun to whisper.

The Gryffindor common room was in full post-Hogsmeade glow—sugar highs, warm firelight, half-drunk mugs of cocoa, and charmed sweets still bouncing through the air as students slowly peeled off scarves and boots and began recounting their adventures.

Fred and George were trying to charm Bertie Bott's beans into identifying their flavours before you ate them. They had succeeded only in making one screech "ONION!" at top volume before exploding in a small puff of smoke.

Ron was locked in an aggressively loud game of Exploding Snap with Dean and Seamus, cards flying and occasional singed eyebrows drawing hoots of laughter.

Harry and Neville had claimed the table by the hearth, the chess set already half-deployed.

Hermione sat nearby in one of the high-backed armchairs, Crookshanks sprawled like an orange rug across her lap. She was quiet—reading, maybe. Or thinking.

Harry looked up, brow quirked as he reached for a pawn.

"Reckon you'll actually last longer than ten minutes this time, Neville?"

Neville grinned. "Only if your queen doesn't come for my throat straight out of the gate."

Hermione cleared her throat softly. "Harry?"

He glanced over.

"Could I borrow the map?"

He blinked, then nodded. "Yeah—sure."

He slipped the Marauder's Map from the inside of his robes and passed it to her under the table. She tucked it under Crookshanks and rose, heading toward the quieter alcove just behind the fireplace with the care of someone avoiding notice.

She tapped the parchment gently, whispered the words: I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

The lines sprang to life in silver ink.

Her eyes scanned. Floor by floor. Corridor by corridor. Students in their dormitories. Filch near the trophy room. Professors in the staff quarters. Elijah marked as just passing through the Entrance Hall, heading toward the castle gates.

Then—

A name that shouldn't have been there.

A name that didn't make sense.

Peter Pettigrew.

And not just anywhere.

He was in the common room.

Right in front of her.

Her heart began to race.

She looked again.

The dot was near the hearth.

Near the chessboard.

Near Ron.

Her eyes flicked from the map to the floor, and then to the ginger blur curled up across her chair.

She whispered, barely a breath: "Go."

Crookshanks stiffened.

Then launched.

The room erupted.

Chairs toppled. Screams echoed. Ron shouted, "OI! CROOKSHANKS, NO—!"

The cat hurtled toward the fireplace, a blur of fur and fury.

There was a squeak—shrill, unmistakable—and then chaos.

A rat bolted from under Ron's chair—Scabbers, unmistakable—legs churning wildly as Crookshanks gave chase.

The room exploded into movement.

"GET HIM!" Ron yelled, sprinting after the pair, leaping over Dean and knocking into Seamus's mug in the process.

"WHAT IS HAPPENING—" bellowed Angelina.

And then the portrait hole burst open, and Professor McGonagall stormed in, hair askew and tartan robe billowing.

"WHAT in Merlin's name is going on here?!"

Hermione bolted upright just as Crookshanks pounced, body twisting mid-air—

—and landed squarely on top of the fleeing rat.

There was a screech, a thump, and silence.

Crookshanks sat neatly at the centre of the common room, tail swishing, one massive paw pinning a wriggling, very much alive rat by the tail.

Ron skidded to a halt.

Harry slowly stood.

McGonagall looked at the scene—then at the students—then at the cat.

"Miss Granger," she said sharply, "would you care to explain why your cat is restraining Mr Weasley's rat like a common criminal?"

Hermione opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Then said, faintly, "He isn't his rat."