"Morning, Professor McGonagall."
"Good morning, Viktor. And Tom—oh, don't you look dashing today."
McGonagall reached down and gave the head of the little cat dressed in his miniature hunting outfit a gentle scratch.
Tom accepted the praise like a perfect gentleman: he bowed deeply and pressed a polite kiss to the back of her hand.
Then—with a theatrical flourish—he produced a single perfect flower from nowhere and presented it to her.
McGonagall accepted it with a soft laugh, pinned the bloom to her robes, and turned to Viktor.
"Off to Hogsmeade as well, Viktor?"
"Yes, Professor. Thought I'd grab a drink at the Three Broomsticks and let Tom have a wander around the village."
"Very well. You two go on ahead. I still have to go through the permission slips with Sprout and the others."
"See you at the Three Broomsticks later, then."
With that, Viktor walked past the long queue of students waiting for their forms to be checked—every single one shooting him deeply envious glances—and headed toward the Thestral-drawn carriage reserved for staff.
"Morning, Hagrid. Morning, Witherwings."
He laughed and gave the curious Thestral's head a solid pat, then slipped an enormous strip of jerky into its beak.
While Hagrid finished buckling the harness, Viktor asked, "Heading to the Three Broomsticks for a pint later?"
"Nah, Viktor—not today. Got a Manticore-lioness in foal. Need to keep a close eye on her for a bit."
Hagrid grinned, showing every massive tooth.
Viktor's eye twitched.
Seriously—how the hell had Hagrid managed to cross-breed a Fire Crab with a Manticore?
And now it had actually worked.
He could only pray the resulting creature wouldn't be some kind of horrifying abomination.
"Well… hope it's a healthy, cute little thing."
"Oh, I'm sure it will be. Thanks, Viktor."
Just then the first wave of approved students came rushing over, chattering excitedly.
Hagrid glanced at them, then turned back to Viktor.
"Next time I'll buy you a drink at the Hog's Head. Gotta go harness up for the kids now."
"I'll hold you to that."
Viktor waved as Hagrid hurried off, then climbed into the carriage pulled by Witherwings.
...
The carriage hadn't even fully stopped before Tom leapt out like he'd been shot from a cannon.
By the time Viktor finished saying goodbye to Witherwings and turned around—
Tom was already floating, cartoon-style, nose lifted high, drawn inexorably toward Honeydukes by a thick, visible ribbon of multicoloured candy scent.
When Viktor finally stepped inside the sweet shop, Tom was already in full plunder mode.
One paw braced on a tiny trolley, the other kicking off the floor like a skateboarder.
He zipped between towering shelves, both paws blurring into afterimages as he swept armfuls of sweets into the cart.
Chocolate Frogs. Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. Coconut Ice. Fizzing Whizbees. Liquorice Wands. Ice Mice. Exploding Bonbons. Pepper Imps. Peppermint Toads. Vampire Lollipops. Turkish Delight. Acid Pops…
The pile grew into a teetering, wobbling mountain that swayed dangerously with every turn.
Yet through sheer cartoon physics and Tom's ridiculous skill, the precarious tower never collapsed.
The mound blocked his view completely—but Tom still slid to a perfect stop right in front of the till.
He poked his head out from behind the sugar avalanche and stared expectantly at the stunned clerk.
Casually, he plucked a single Pepper Imp from the pile and popped it into his mouth.
Next second—
"MRRRROOOOOOWWWWWW!!"
Tom's entire body flushed bright red. His mouth flew open and a literal jet of flame erupted.
Tongue lolling, eyes watering, he flailed wildly.
His paw smacked into something ice-cold.
Without thinking, he shoved it straight into his mouth.
An Ice Mouse.
Instant full-body shiver. Teeth chattering like castanets.
Pepper Imp heat + Ice Mouse freeze = one very confused cat cycling rapidly between tomato-red and snow-white.
Sparks kept popping out between his clenched teeth.
When the duelling sensations finally wore off, Tom flopped belly-first onto the counter, chin resting on his paws, eyes half-lidded in deep afterglow.
He gazed lovingly at the towering pile of loot being packed up by the wide-eyed clerk.
Then—nose twitch.
His head snapped up. Eyes locked on the dark brown countertop.
"Chocolate!"
He was absolutely certain—he'd just caught a rich, unmistakable whiff of chocolate.
Memories of Viktor's bedtime story about a certain Charlie and his magical chocolate factory flashed through his mind.
After the wild ride of Pepper Imp + Ice Mouse…
Tom came to a firm conclusion:
This entire shop must be made of chocolate and candy.
Everything.
Including the counter.
So he reared back, opened wide, and chomped down with all his might.
CRACK!
Not the sound of chocolate breaking.
The sound of Tom's teeth shattering.
He lifted his head slowly, mouth agape in shock.
One by one, cracks spiderwebbed across his perfect set of pearly whites… then they crumbled into fragments and rained onto the floor.
Viktor, standing right behind him, slapped a palm over his face.
Seriously—he hadn't starved the cat. How was Tom this greedy?
Honeydukes' counter was solid black walnut.
The "chocolate" was just a flavoured lacquer.
Tom sat there like a toothless old man, lips pursed, staring at the pile of dental wreckage.
Then he looked back at the massive bite mark he'd left in the wood.
Heartbroken, he swept the shards into a little pile, tucked them away… reached behind his back… and pulled out a brand-new set of gleaming teeth.
They sparkled like pearls under the dim shop lights.
He jammed them in.
Grinned wide—showing off the fresh, razor-sharp set.
Then turned a defiant glare back toward the unyielding counter.
The click-clack of his new teeth grinding together rang out. The shine was almost blinding.
Viktor had zero doubt those fangs could chew through steel.
So he reached down, grabbed Tom by the scruff of fate, and hoisted him clean off the counter.
Tom—still mid-chomp, fully intending to test whether the counter or his new teeth were harder—twisted around with an indignant yowl.
Only to meet Viktor's pitch-black "you've got to be kidding me" expression.
He glanced guiltily back at the row of perfect tooth marks.
At the clerk, whose quill had fallen from nerveless fingers onto the order slip.
Tom turned back around, suddenly very interested in whistling innocently.
Viktor set him down with exaggerated care.
The second his paws touched floor—
Tom blurred into motion.
Instantly produced: instant noodles, Tom-brand universal glue, hammer, nails, the works.
Bang bang bang tap tap tap—
A cloud of sawdust and cartoon smoke engulfed half the counter.
When it cleared—
The bite marks were gone.
The wood gleamed like new. Not a trace of damage.
The clerk was still staring in open-mouthed shock.
Under her dazed farewell wave, one man and one very smug cat left Honeydukes laden with loot.
Feeling the envious stares of passing students, Viktor glanced sideways at Tom.
The little menace was strutting—head held high, transparent plastic bag bulging with his sugary spoils, clearly basking in the jealousy.
Viktor just shook his head.
To be fair—the candy had come out of Tom's own pocket money stash.
As long as he didn't cause actual trouble… let him go wild.
With the noisy crowds of students all around, Viktor steered them toward the Three Broomsticks.
McGonagall and the others should be there by now.
Perfect time to grab a drink and pick their brains about teaching methods.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door.
A rush of warm air laced with the sweet scent of butterbeer washed over him.
The fire in the hearth danced merrily, bathing the pub in golden light.
Dried herbs and gleaming copper pots hung from the rafters. Old wizarding photos lined the walls—occasionally winking at newcomers.
Several sturdy oak tables were already occupied, mostly by older students on awkward dates.
Laughter, conversation, and the gentle clink of glasses created a perfect cocoon of warmth.
Viktor spotted them immediately: the table near the fireplace.
McGonagall, Sprout, Sinistra from Astronomy, and Sprout's assistant Weason.
They were deep in quiet discussion, each with a steaming mug in front of them.
"Ah, Viktor—over here!" Sprout spotted him first and waved cheerfully.
Viktor smiled and walked over, Tom trotting curiously at his heels, taking in the new sights.
"Afternoon, everyone. Hope we're not late."
"Right on time, dear." McGonagall took a sip, her stern features softened by the firelight. "We only just ordered. Sit."
Viktor was reaching for a chair when light footsteps approached from the bar.
Madam Rosmerta was gliding toward them, tray balanced expertly.
Tall, graceful, wrapped in a perfectly tailored deep-green robe that made her skin look like porcelain.
Thick chestnut curls loosely pinned, a few tendrils teasing her cheeks.
"Professors—your hot mead, and… oh, new company."
She set down the drinks one by one, voice warm and melodic, eyes landing naturally on Viktor—and the cat at his feet.
In that instant, Tom froze as though hit with a Full Body-Bind.
His huge round eyes locked on her. Pupils dilated to black saucers, reflecting her swaying figure perfectly.
Then—those pupils warped. Stretched. Transformed into two violently throbbing, glittering pink heart-shapes.
PUFF—! PUFF—!
Twin jets of white steam shot from his ears like a kettle at full boil.
Madam Rosmerta noticed immediately. She bent at the waist with a delighted smile.
"Oh—and a little gentleman in a hunting suit. How handsome."
As she leaned closer, a soft wave of perfume, butterbeer, and polished wood washed over Tom.
His head tilted back like a sunflower tracking the sun—neck craned to the absolute limit.
Mouth fell open, showing off those brand-new pearly whites.
He sucked in a deep, dramatic breath—trying (and failing) to look more "suave."
The puffed-out chest, the pursed lips, the steam still puffing from his ears, and those giant throbbing heart-eyes combined into maximum comedy.
Madam Rosmerta burst into delighted laughter. "What a character."
She reached down and gently pinched his cheek.
Tom's face immediately stretched and squished like warm putty under her fingers.
Clearly intrigued, she played with his rubbery features for a few seconds—moulding him into increasingly ridiculous shapes.
When she finally let go, Tom's face had been rearranged into something vaguely bovine.
She straightened, still chuckling, and turned to Viktor.
"So, sir—what can I get you? Our butterbeer is especially rich today."
Viktor hurriedly ordered two butterbeers—mostly wanting this mortifying spectacle to end.
Madam Rosmerta nodded gracefully to the whole table, then turned and swayed back toward the bar.
Tom's gaze followed her like it was tied to her with invisible string—neck stretched comically long.
Only when she disappeared behind the curtain did he deflate.
Plop.
He collapsed flat on the floor, front paws clutched over his heart in full "struck by Cupid's arrow" melodrama.
The professors had watched the entire performance.
Sprout hid her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Sinistra raised an elegant brow, clearly amused.
Even McGonagall's lips twitched upward—just a tiny, uncontrollable fraction.
"Well," McGonagall cleared her throat, fighting to keep her voice stern. "It appears Tom has… discerning taste. In more than just sweets."
Viktor rubbed his forehead with a long-suffering sigh, reached down, and lifted the boneless puddle of cat off the floor—depositing him in an empty chair.
Tom immediately flopped sideways across the seat, one paw still dramatically over his heart, eyes half-lidded in dreamy aftershock.