"Impossible," Hermione said, tense and flustered. "Crookshanks never even touched him."
"The evidence is right in front of you! You — you murderer!"
"Murder? He's a rat!"
"But Scabbers has lived with my family for eleven years — he's as good as family to me!"
"That's impossible. Rats don't live for eleven years."
"That's what makes Scabbers special! Now hand over that killer cat!"
Harry glanced out into the corridor. "Mr. Vincent — it's getting a bit heated out there. Maybe you should…"
"…Fine."
Bernadette gave a nod and stepped out.
By now a crowd of young witches and wizards had gathered around Hermione and Ron, buzzing with whispered commentary.
Hermione stood her ground with Crookshanks in her arms, retreating step by step under the force of Ron's glare. For all her usual boldness, she was clearly in the wrong here — and this was her first time so far from home. Her face, try as she might, betrayed a flicker of unease.
Neville hesitantly stepped in front of her, flushing red with nerves. "I — I can vouch for her. The cat never touched your rat."
Ron clutched a grey-black rat in his hands, bristling. "Even so — Scabbers was scared half to death by that horrible cat! That's basically the same thing!"
A snicker cut through the air — sardonic and perfectly timed. Three boys sauntered over. The one in the middle had pale blond hair and the kind of good looks that sat uneasily with the sharp cruelty in his expression. The two flanking him were built like boulders.
"I've heard the Weasleys can't afford to feed all their children. But I never imagined things were so desperate they had to keep something that ugly as a pet. Truly pitiful."
"Say that again!" Ron snarled.
The blond boy folded his arms with a cold smile. "What — you want to fight, Weasley? You pitiful little nobody."
"Why, you—"
Ron rolled up his sleeve, ready to charge. Harry caught him in time. "Ron, easy."
"Well, well. If it isn't our great saviour, Harry Potter himself. I never expected to find you keeping company with the likes of the Weasleys…"
The words died in his throat. He stiffened, eyes locking onto Bernadette as she approached.
Bernadette had already placed the boy. "Ah — the son of 'two hundred Galleons.'"
She stepped closer. "Two hundred — Mr. Malfoy. Does this situation have anything to do with you?"
"No!"
Malfoy answered before he could stop himself.
"Then were you hoping to offer an opinion?"
"…No. I was just leaving."
The reason Malfoy was so rattled by Bernadette had nothing to do with her being a Hogwarts professor. After their encounter at Diagon Alley, he'd caught fragments of a conversation between his father and mother. The whole thing boiled down to one sentence: Vincent Moriarty was a dangerous lunatic.
With someone like that, no amount of pedigree or bloodline would protect you. The only sensible thing was to stay as far away as possible.
Bernadette swept a look over the rest of the onlookers. "Right. Nothing left to see here. Everyone back to your compartments."
None of the students knew who she was, but she was clearly an adult, and her tone left no room for argument. The crowd quietly dispersed.
Soon the corridor held only Bernadette and the four children.
Harry leaned close to Ron and murmured something. Ron immediately looked up at Bernadette and pointed at Hermione. "Professor — her cat attacked my rat!"
Hermione instinctively pulled Crookshanks tighter and took half a step back. At that, the cat gave a sudden kick and leapt free with an indignant "Mrrow," sprinting off down the corridor.
"Crookshanks!"
Hermione moved to chase him, but Ron blocked her path. "Oh no you don't!"
"I wasn't running—"
Bernadette picked the rat up by the tail, held it up, and gave it a small swing. "It's not dead."
"Impossible. It had no heartbeat!" Ron blinked.
"It does now."
As she said it, she channelled a thread of magical energy through her fingertips, down the rat's tail and into its body. With a sharp squeak, Scabbers went rigid — and then began thrashing in frantic, desperate attempts to escape. Completely futile.
He twisted his head around and sank his teeth into the nearest finger. Bernadette flicked her hand and sent him sailing back into Ron's arms.
"Scabbers! Scabbers, you're alive! Oh, thank Merlin!"
Ron was overjoyed. The rat, for its part, wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else.
Emboldened, Hermione lifted her chin and drew herself up. "I told you — Crookshanks never laid a paw on him! You have absolutely no right to—"
Bernadette cut her off calmly. "I believe you owe Mr. Weasley an apology, Miss Granger."
"Excuse me?" Her eyes went wide.
"You disagree?"
"…"
Hermione pressed her lips together, eyes darting sideways.
Neville murmured gently, "Hermione…"
At last, she took a slow breath, and bowed her head to Ron. "I'm sorry. I should have kept better watch over my cat. I hope you can forgive me."
"Oh — uh—"
Her sincerity knocked Ron completely off balance. He stumbled back half a step, tripping over his own words. "You — you don't have to be so formal about it… Just, you know, keep an eye on your cat from now on… Hogwarts has more than one pet rat…"
"Thank you, Professor."
Bernadette gave a quiet sound of acknowledgement, then glanced once more at the rat in Ron's hands as she turned to go. She'd felt something just now — a faint but distinct trace of unusual magical energy coming from inside that rat.
Was it one of the magical creatures the man had mentioned?
Meanwhile, Crookshanks went hurtling back toward Bernadette's compartment, a gleam of smugness flickering through his eyes.
Original plan: catch a plump rat for a snack. Actual result: accidentally set off complete chaos, lured out the giant thieving cat, and created the perfect window of opportunity.
Wait, no — that had been the plan all along. He was simply that brilliant.
Back in the compartment, he launched himself at the staff hanging on the wall and latched onto the end of it. He flipped open the pouch tucked against his belly and began trying to stuff the staff inside.
But the staff was far too heavy for him. He couldn't budge it. Instead, he started climbing toward the tip, feeding it inch by inch into the pouch.
He was nearly there — when it jammed. A clatter of objects knocked together somewhere inside.
"Blast. The pouch is too full."
Crookshanks' face fell into an expression of grave deliberation: sacrifice the stick that gave him that wonderful warm, buzzy feeling? Or give up some of his treasures?
The decision came swiftly: treasures could always be collected again. There was only one stick in the entire world that gave off that feeling.
And so he dangled there in mid-air and began rummaging through the pouch:
A cauldron — he'd taken it because it was shiny, but it had gone all black by now. Out.
A clear stone — there seemed to be plenty of those about now. Out.
Gemstones — those had taken considerable effort to acquire. Hmm.
Actually, maybe just the gold coins. He had loads of those.
He muttered to himself, weighing up each item, periodically flinging out cauldrons, chunks of ore, crystals, and a great quantity of golden Galleons.
"Almost there… just a little more…"
At that exact moment, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside.
Crookshanks froze. They were back.
To be continued…