Crookshanks and Hedwig were mature pets.
They had mobilized every pet in Hogwarts—even those belonging to first-years who had just arrived—conducting the most thorough search in every possible corner. Matters concerning pets were best handled by pets.
The only one who wasn't pleased was Filch.
Hallways, classrooms, statues—everything was covered in cat fur, owl feathers, or toad slime.
Cleaning up all this mess was going to take a lot of time, and the cat fur was especially difficult to deal with.
By the end of the day, Filch was reeking of other cats' scents.
Mrs. Norris meowed at him relentlessly, demanding an explanation—had he been out fooling around?
It was a miserable day for Filch.
He didn't even get to sleep with Mrs. Norris that night—he was banished to the sofa.
The next day, Corny was still missing.
No one knew whether he was alive or dead.
And that wasn't the worst news.
A young Hufflepuff witch reported that her pet had also disappeared. Just yesterday, it had been right there—but after following Crookshanks on a search, it had vanished.
A perfectly adorable toad, gone.
Now, even more students were getting nervous.
Everyone kept their pets by their sides, refusing to let them wander off.
Even Crookshanks couldn't escape Hermione's restrictions.
The once completely free-spirited feline was now bound by the shackles of fate—a soft little lambskin collar and leash.
Before conjuring it, Hermione had asked the ginger cat for his preferred color.
Hedwig and Baus weren't spared either.
Until the culprit was caught, pet safety was the top priority.
The professors took this matter very seriously.
Every professor had once had a beloved pet—except for Snape, of course.
As they grew older, their childhood companions had passed away. Not every wizard was fortunate enough to have an immortal pet like Dumbledore.
Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout teamed up.
They were determined to catch whoever was responsible.
Not even the Weasley twins would pull such a cruel prank.
Ron was busy too—this was part of his prefect duties.
It was his responsibility to protect the younger students.
Harry didn't get involved.
No one had hired him.
And a Witcher never worked for free.
Besides, he had bigger concerns.
The development of the Werewolf Reversal Potion was not going well.
Snape had somehow acquired two werewolves, kindly naming them "Remus."
Pluralized, of course—with a small "s" at the end.
He had locked them inside the Shrieking Shack to participate in the experiments.
They hadn't been captured.
Snape wasn't a clean man.
He had left word in Knockturn Alley that he needed two werewolves for research—one-year commitment, Wolfsbane Potion provided monthly.
He received several eager applicants immediately.
Lupin knew about this.
His reaction?
"If I'd known about an offer like this three years ago—and if I hadn't known Snape was behind it—I'd have jumped at the opportunity."
Werewolves were an unstable factor in society.
But not all werewolves were like Greyback, bent on vengeance.
Many were like Lupin—living in poverty, avoiding people, doing everything possible to prevent themselves from harming others.
Good people always had wands pointed at them.
Good werewolves had wands pointed at them too.
They obeyed laws.
They were kind to others.
And in return?
They were denied a decent life.
Lupin was the luckiest among them.
He had attended the finest wizarding school in Europe—Hogwarts.
He had graduated and even been a prefect.
At least his life had a proper record.
But among the law-abiding werewolves, none had received a complete education.
The majority had only learned basic magic through night classes or street performers.
Most weren't even as skilled as a first-year Hogwarts student.
Lupin was alone.
He had blended in with normal people—especially at Hogwarts, where he had three best friends and everyone liked him.
Leaving Hogwarts, however, had been a brutal slap of reality.
Society had crushed him.
He had no stomach for underhanded tricks.
Unlike other werewolves, he couldn't bring himself to beg for work.
But normal jobs wouldn't hire him.
No one wanted a werewolf as an employee.
Even when Lupin humiliated himself by offering to wear a muzzle, no one gave him a chance.
No one—except Dumbledore, Sirius, and the Weasley twins.
The law-abiding werewolves weren't alone, but they were unlucky.
They had no friends among normal wizards.
Lupin did.
Even after being exiled for years, the strongest forces in the wizarding world had pulled him back in—the greatest white wizard, the purest noble family, and the youngest, most promising heir of Gryffindor.
The others could only watch from the sidelines, jealous and longing, as they peered through the cracks in the walls that kept them out.
Snape had been blunt.
He told them maybe—just maybe—there was a way to reverse their condition.
The price?
They might die.
They thanked him for the privilege.
Now they lived inside the Whomping Willow.
Like prisoners.
Their only meals were delivered by house-elves.
Their only entertainment?
The few children's books Snape had begrudgingly tossed them.
But they were excited.
They didn't care if Snape took their blood—or even their flesh.
But their sacrifice hadn't paid off.
In the first month, not even a testable potion had been developed.
Individually, the ingredients worked fine.
But when combined in a cauldron, they clashed violently.
Snape had already blown up several cauldrons.
In all his years of potion-making, he had never experienced such humiliation.
Meanwhile, research on Horcruxes was progressing smoothly.
By the end of September.
In Dumbledore's office.
Harry pushed open the door and peeked inside.
All four Heads of House were present.
"Pomona, bring it out," Dumbledore sighed.
"No." Professor Sprout's refusal was immediate.
"The Horcrux is already removed," Dumbledore pleaded. "It's safe now."
"And because it's no longer a Horcrux, it's even more dangerous," Sprout shook her head. "Not just you—all of you! This thing is too dangerous, even for Harry."
"Face what?" Harry had quietly approached behind her and suddenly spoke.
Sprout jumped, turning around with an annoyed huff. "Harry, why do you never make a sound when you walk?"
"Maybe because you were too focused on scolding Dumbledore."
Sprout chuckled. "I wasn't scolding him—I was educating him."
"He wants the Resurrection Stone. But it's not meant for him. And it's not meant for any of you."
She looked at each of them—Harry, Snape, Flitwick, McGonagall—before delivering her verdict.
"None of you should see it."
"The Resurrection Stone cannot truly bring back the dead."
"The fairy tale makes that very clear. It only creates an illusion of the dead—one that looks real, that acts real, but lacks the will to live, leading the living to their own deaths."
She paused, then continued in a soft tone.
"You all know the story."
Dumbledore, however, was not giving up.
"Just one look?"
Sprout scoffed and turned away.
Absolutely not.
Dumbledore waved his hand, and chairs flew over, landing neatly behind them. "Since that's the case, let's move on. Everyone, take a seat."
"Can the Horcruxes really be removed?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore nodded. "For objects, yes. They can be separated. But Harry, your situation is unique. We need to discuss it in detail. After all, a Horcrux embedded in a living soul is exceedingly rare."
Harry said nothing.
Dumbledore continued, "And there is one particularly bad piece of news."
"After removing the Horcrux, I attempted to peer into its memories."
"This was only Voldemort's second Horcrux. It contained no information about the others."
"And as we suspected, he intended to make seven Horcruxes."
"Seven is a number of immense magical power."
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Powerstones?
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