The Grim & The Cat
The humans were still clueless. Days had passed since my first attempt to expose the rat for what he truly was, yet they remained blind to the obvious. Scabbers continued to scuttle about, basking in their ignorance.
But I wasn’t giving up. Oh no, this wasn’t over.
That’s when I met him. The Grim.
It happened one night as I was prowling the grounds. The castle was quiet, the moon high in the sky. Most of the students were asleep, their snores echoing through the drafty halls, but I wasn’t interested in them. I was on patrol, as any self-respecting genius would be.
I was just passing by the Whomping Willow, a tree with the temper of a hungover hippogriff, when I saw it—a massive black dog skulking in the shadows.
We locked eyes, and I froze. This was no ordinary canine. He had the look of someone who had seen things, done things, and probably regretted half of them.
The dog stared at me, then wagged his tail. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”
I tilted my head. “Why would I be scared of a flea-bitten mutt?”
He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “Flea-bitten? That’s rich, coming from a glorified cushion.”
“Careful,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I’m more dangerous than I look.”
The dog stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll bet you are. You’ve been chasing that rat, haven’t you?”
I blinked. “You’ve noticed.”
“Hard not to,” he said. “He reeks of guilt. And something worse.”
Finally, someone with a shred of intelligence. “Who are you?” I asked.
He hesitated, his ears twitching. “Let’s just say I’m... a friend. I’ve been watching that rat for a long time.”
“Not very well, apparently,” I said dryly. “He’s still alive.”
The dog snorted. “Touché. What’s your plan, then?”
“Simple,” I said. “Catch him, expose him, and bask in the glory of being right.”
“Not bad,” he said, nodding. “But you’ll need my help.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I trust you?”
“Because,” he said, grinning, “I hate him more than you do.”
It was a compelling argument.
From that night on, we became unlikely allies. The Grim—who later admitted his name was Sirius—was surprisingly useful for a dog. He knew things I didn’t, like the rat’s true identity (Peter Pettigrew, he’d growled, baring his teeth).
I agreed to work with him, but only under strict conditions:
1. No barking during our operations.
2. No slobbering on me.
3. All food scraps were mine.
Sirius grumbled but eventually agreed.
Our first mission as a team was simple: reconnaissance.
Scabbers rarely left The Ginger’s side, so we decided to tail him discreetly. Sirius took the form of a scruffy black dog, blending in with the shadows, while I provided a distraction.
“Your cat’s staring at me again,” The Ginger muttered, clutching Scabbers.
Hermione glanced up from her book. “He’s just curious.”
“Yeah, curious about eating him,” The Ginger shot back.
I rolled my eyes. Humans. Always so dramatic.
While they argued, I crept closer, positioning myself beneath The Ginger’s chair. Sirius gave me a subtle nod from his hiding spot near the fireplace.
Everything was going perfectly.
And then The Hero tripped over Sirius.
“What the—?!” Harry yelped, nearly falling into the fire.
Sirius barked in surprise and bolted, his cover blown.
“Was that a dog?” Hermione asked, frowning.
“I didn’t see anything,” The Ginger said, still clutching Scabbers like a particularly ugly teddy bear.
I sighed. Operation Rat-nap had failed. Again.
Later, Sirius and I regrouped near the Forbidden Forest.
“That went well,” I said, licking my paw.
Sirius glared at me. “Your humans are impossible.”
“Tell me about it.”
He flopped onto the grass, his tail thumping irritably. “We’ll get him next time.”
I smirked. “Of course we will. I always win in the end.”
Sirius chuckled. “I like your confidence, cat.”
“Crookshanks,” I corrected.
“Crookshanks,” he said, nodding. “I think this might actually work.”
I stretched out beside him, gazing up at the stars. The battle wasn’t over yet, but for the first time, I felt like we had a real chance.
And Scabbers? His days were numbered.