Best in Show

Remus was unrolling the lead to clip onto Padfoot's collar when the woman with the evil Siamese passed him, the cat staring smugly over her shoulder. He had just started to bend over when the vile creature suddenly clawed its way up onto its owner's shoulder, took a flying leap and landed on James' arm, aiming a paw full of needle-sharp claws at the unfortunate Peter, who was cowering in James' other hand. James yelled, flailing at the cat: it was flung aside yowling in outrage, while Peter, out of his wits with terror, dropped onto the ground and ran like the blazes.

"PETER! COME BACK!" James bawled, as the cat recovered itself and went hurtling after Peter, with James in hot pursuit.

Remus had no time to do anything to help. A thundering bark erupted from Padfoot and he bowled Remus over, pelting after the cat and the rat, baying enough for a full pack of hunt beagles, running at top speed into the milling crowd of contestants.

It took a moment for Remus to catch his breath and stumble to his feet, but when he did his only words were, "Oh, shit !"

Pandemonium had broken loose in the show ring as rat, cat and dog rocketed around the ring like a ball bearing in a pinball machine. At some point, the chase had passed through the pack of furballs and frightened them into fits; they were darting about in tight circles on the end of their leads, eyes bulging, giving shrill frenzied yaps. Their fancy leather leads had completely tied their owner's legs together, so she wobbled on the spot trying desperately to soothe them. Adults were yelling, children were alternately wailing or cheering the animals on, dogs were barking in solidarity, and the cats were hissing, clawing and attacking anyone in range. The cage of budgies were flinging the cuttlefish out of their cage while gleefully repeating the curses ringing around the field, until Padfoot's tail caught their cage. It crashed to ground and the birds soared skyward, still merrily swearing like troopers. Over the racket Remus could just hear James yelling, "Stop! Come here, you stupid git!" Padfoot didn't appear to be listening. Remus shaded his eyes, scanning his eyes for Pads.

Oh no. He wouldn't.

Oh hell. He just had...

Padfoot chased the cat out of the fete's collection of tables and stalls and right into the sheep-herding display. The sheep scattered at the sight of Padfoot, baying and enormous: the sheepdogs went the wrong way and tried to herd each other in the confusion. Free of supervision, the terrified sheep bunched together and stampeded, cramming themselves in between the tents, eyes rolling and nostrils flared. Within minutes the fete was gridlocked by witless sheep, while the escaped budgies yelled swearwords from their perch on a tent roof. The pets went completely mad and their owners swore heartily while trying to avoid the wandering sheep.

Remus hesitated. He ought to go and find Pads, then catch up with James. He ought to. But then he saw the organiser of the pet show, wringing his hands and almost weeping as he tried to placate Bettany-Clarke. It seemed that one of the escaped budgies had crapped down his neck. Publicly claiming the dog who'd caused it all, Remus thought, was going to make him very unpopular with an awful lot of people.

Sod it. Pads could look after himself for a while. Feeling only slightly guilty, Remus slipped off before anyone remembered about him.

Finding James was no easy business, but after dodging a few stray ewes and a near-psychotic sheepdog Remus spotted the familiar dragged-through-a-hedge-backwards hair of James beside a clump of trees near the sheep pens. He jogged up.

"James!"

"God, that was awful." James was haggard under his glasses. "If I ever get my hands on that bloody cat, I'll kill it! I really thought Wormtail'd had it." He snorted with hysterical glee. "Moony, how the hell would we have told old McGonagall that Peter'd had his head chewed off by a pussycat? She'd think we'd gone stark staring loony!"

"In your case, she'd be right," Remus said absently. "How's Wormtail?"

"How do you think?" snapped a voice from behind a bush. Remus peered around to see Peter, human once more and sitting on the grass, red faced and shaking to his chubby ankles. "My nerves are buggered! I can't stop shaking, look!"

"Wormtail," Remus said, "what happened to your trousers?"

Peter flushed even redder than before. It was true: his trousers had vanished, displaying a pair of grey Y-fronts and chubby legs to anyone who cared to look. "You know I have trouble transforming when I'm nervous," he muttered, scowling at his toes.

Remus sighed. "I'd better go and find Padfoot."

"Don't bother," James said. "He's probably having a fantastic time."

"Yes, that's what I'm afraid of. Look, give Wormtail the Invisibility Cloak, and I'll meet you at the tunnel entrance - shut up, Wormtail, it's nothing a crate of Butterbeer won't cure."

"Easy for you to say," Peter griped. "I feel a total prat!"

"Fair's fair, you look like one as well," James said. This was too much: with a strangled shriek Peter pounced on James and got him into a headlock before James could fight back.

"Argh! Ouch! Get off me, you lunatic! Moony, help!"

Remus, however, had already gone. He was beginning to get rather worried, since he had no idea where Padfoot might have got to. If they were missed at dinner, McGonagall would definitely want an explanation, and the woman could smell a cover story at fifty paces. "Hell, Padfoot, where are you?" he muttered to himself after his third circuit of the fete. Suddenly, as he passed the beer tent, he heard a very familiar bark.

"Woof! Woof! Woof!"

There was a ragged cheer from inside the tent. "Good boy!" said a man's voice. "Here, drinkies for a clever boy." Remus turned the corner to see a knot of men settled around the rickety tables in the shade of the beer tent, watching an enormous black dog who was slobbering down a bowlful of beer with every sign of enjoyment. He slurped up the last drop and looked up hopefully, tail wagging and muzzle dripping.

Remus groaned.

"Come on now, you'll get that poor animal sozzled, you old fool," the woman behind the counter chided the speaker.

"Nah, he's a big lad. He can take it. Here, boy! Hold up your right paw. Right paw!"

Padfoot sat back on his haunches and raised his right paw obediently.

"See? Steady as a rock," the man said triumphantly. The little group clapped and cheered. They didn't seem to have noticed that, with one paw in the air, Padfoot was swaying gently. "Here, have a pork scratching. Catch!"

"Padfoot!" Remus called. Padfoot blinked, distracted, and the pork scratching bounced off his nose.

"Excuse me, but this is my dog," Remus said in his best polite voice, "and I think he'd better come home now."

Padfoot's ringmaster inspected Remus with friendly interest. "Oh, is he yours? Pity he's going, we were having a nice old drink together, weren't we?" he asked his friends. Chuckles and nods came from the others. "Very well trained, and very civilised company. Not like some of the troublemakers you get round here." He leaned over and patted Padfoot's head as Remus clipped his lead on. "Ta-ra, old boy. You ever want to drop into the George and Dragon, we'll stand you a bowl or two."

"Come on, Padfoot," Remus said sharply, tugging on Padfoot's lead. It took several tugs to rouse Padfoot from his tipsy daydreams and get him on his feet; he followed Remus making grumbling noises under his breath. Remus breathed a sigh of relief once they left the beer tent. Now to go and meet James. "And remind me - if anyone asks, I'm not with you," Remus said. Padfoot looked up at him with bemused, unfocused eyes and gave a rather unsteady bark.

They hadn't gone far when something bumped into Remus' leg, hard. He looked down to see Padfoot leaning against his leg.

"Pads, stop it." He jerked the lead and Padfoot moved away. Two metres later it happened again, almost knocking Remus off his feet. "Oi, Pads, what are you playing at?" he hissed, looking down at the dog. Padfoot trotted forward a little way, only to stumble into Remus' leg again. Then Remus realised. He was weaving. The bloody dog was too sloshed to walk in a straight line. For a full minute Remus battled an urge to strangle the cat who had started it, the men in the beer tent, Padfoot, or preferably all three. He reached down to get a firm grip on Padfoot's collar - receiving a beery lick in return - and started to tow Padfoot out of the fete grounds. If he could get Pads out before anyone saw him, they might just get away with it...

Steering Padfoot was harder than he'd thought: he was walking bent nearly double and Pads kept treading in Remus' shoes. Remus was sidling as fast as he could for the exit when -

"Hey! You there!"

Remus squinted over his shoulder, trying to stop Padfoot sticking a wet nose against his neck. The organiser, accompanied by a fearsome-looking woman in a floral dress and court shoes, was approaching at top speed. It was already too late to make a run for it without leaving Padfoot behind. Instead, Remus waited, bracing himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing.

He was by no means disappointed.

"Is this your dog?" Mrs Floral Print demanded in a tone that made glaciers look pleasantly warm.

"Um... yes."

"Um, yes." The woman sucked her lips into a razor-thin line. "This animal," she said, pointing at Padfoot (in a burst of drunken friendliness he tried to offer her his paw, but ended up just waving it vaguely in mid air), "this animal has caused absolute chaos, ruined the Fair for everyone, let loose half of a prize flock of Oxford Downs ewes and disrupted the Pet Show. Seeing as those who entered the Pet Show all agreed to take responsibility for controlling their pet, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Remus squirmed, scouring his brain for a decent excuse (while squashing down the rebel thought that said 'Look, Missus, if you can get Sirius Black to do as he's told, Hogwarts will pay you a mint for the secret'). He decided on the 'Terribly sorry, Madam, he slipped his lead, I tried to catch him but he was too fast, won't happen again, blah blah blah' when Padfoot hiccupped loudly and leaned his head against Remus' knee. Mrs Floral Print's eyes zeroed in on him and narrowed dangerously. Before Remus could begin his apologies she pointed a long varnished fingernail at Padfoot and snapped, "What is the matter with your dog?"

Remus gaped, trying not to panic, but it was hopeless. Padfoot burped, slid off Remus' knee and toppled gently sideways. Mrs Floral Print bent over him, sniffing suspiciously.

"He's t-tired, Miss, he's been up very early and it's been rather hot for him," Remus babbled. "I should really - "

He was cut off by Mrs Floral Print straightening up. The look on her face would have terrified a full-grown Norwegian Ridgeback into trembling submission.

"This dog," she hissed, turning the full fury of her glare onto Remus, "is drunk!"

As if to prove her point, Padfoot hiccupped in his sleep.

If ever he had a near-death experience and his life flashed before his eyes, the following fifteen minutes would be among those when Remus would close his eyes, stick his fingers in his ears and sing 'la la la la' very loudly to block the memory out. As if it wasn't bad enough to be standing in a baking-hot field, drenched in sweat with a dead-drunk Animagus snoring around your ankles, while Mrs Floral Print and the organiser hurled phrases like 'irresponsible behaviour', 'teenaged layabouts' 'no respect for authority' and so on (and on, and on) at him, an interested crowd had started to gather and were discussing the matter among themselves. Remus took the tirade in silence, face red hot from shame.

Finally the flood of outrage trickled to a halt. Just to make sure Remus didn't think he'd got off scot-free, their parting act was to demand Remus' address to report him to the RSPCA. Remus reeled off an address and they took it down and swept off, well satisfied. Thing was, it wasn't his address: it was the address of his favourite bookshop in London. Oh well. So long as the staff didn't remember it the next time they saw him.

Thanking any gods that might be listening, Remus hauled a dozy Padfoot to his feet by the collar. "We are leaving, Pads," he hissed. Padfoot tried to lick his ear. "Eurgh! Gerroff!" He clipped on Padfoot's lead and wrapped it firmly around his hand. Padfoot yawned and eyed a nearby chair speculatively. He wandered over and sniffed it, then looked at Remus.

"Don't you dare!" Remus growled, and dragged him off before he could reconsider.

"Moony!" James was looking a little more normal when Remus arrived with Padfoot at the tunnel mouth, but still pathetically grateful to see them. "What the hell kept you? Wormtail's freezing his nuts off in there, he's gone all - "

"Don't ask," Remus warned him. He unclipped Padfoot's lead. "All right. You. Transform. Now."

Padfoot did a canine eye roll.

'Pop'.

"Hey Prongsy! How you doin'?" Sirius gave James a huge cheery grin, then took in the fixed, frozen looks on his friends' faces. "What'cha all looking at?" He glanced down. "Oh."

For some reason, the transformation hadn't worked as normal. Sirius was wearing his collar but not so much as a stitch of his clothes.

Remus kept his voice dead level. Concentrate on the collar, man, the collar, he told himself. Trouble was, he still knew that the rest of Sirius was buck-naked, and the collar just made it worse. "Prongs, for Merlin's sake give him the Invisibility Cloak."

"Uhm. Yep. Right."

"Now, James."

Sirius winked, swirling the cloak around his shoulders "Face it, Moony. I'm hot and you all want me."

"In your dreams, Pads. Just shut up and make room under there."

Sirius laughed and vanished.

"Laugh while you can, Pads, because as soon as you're sober I am going to get you for this."

"Why wait till then?" James grumbled.

They got as far as the corridor leading to the portrait hole before more trouble arrived. Sirius slipped out from under the Invisibility Cloak.

"Sirius! Get back here, you idiot!" James said.

"Chill, Prongsy, we're home and dry. Nobody's gonna see us, are they? This place is dead on Sunday afternoons." He ambled up to the portrait hole, where the Fat Lady dozed in her chair. "Hey!"

The Fat Lady opened one eye. "Yes?"

"Can I come in?"

The Fat Lady sat up and rubbed her eyes before focusing them on Sirius. "Passw - "

"Diricawl," Sirius said. Nothing happened. The Fat Lady was gaping, her eyes bulging out of her head.

"Sirius - "

"Shurrup, Prongs. Oi! I said - Diricawl." Still nothing. "Di-ri-cawl." Finally he noticed the stare. "What's the matter, never seen a naked bloke before?"

"Sirius, you arse! McGonagall!"

Sirius winced. "Oh, shi - "

Too late. Sirius spun around, coming face to face with Professor McGonagall.

"Erm...afternoon, Professor."

McGonagall's self-control was truly masterful, Remus thought. Her eyes swept over Sirius with barely a raised eyebrow.

"Am I meant to be impressed by this little display, Mr Black?" she enquired.

'Erm..."

"Because if I am, it has failed miserably. Detention tomorrow evening. Good afternoon." She swept off without a second glance.

The four of them fled to the dorms, dosed the paranoid and frazzled Peter with a shot of pilfered Firewhisky, and lay low the rest of the day. Remus read, and James caught up with his homework, left to the last minute as usual. Sirius on the other hand, was still bouncing around in drunken enthusiasm. The noisy git kept them up until two in the morning, first by singing, then sniggering, and finally snoring. James, Remus and Peter were therefore evilly delighted when Sirius' retribution arrived the following morning in the form of the grandmother of all hangovers. Sirius slid out of bed five minutes before breakfast, pasty and groaning.

"Hey, Pads, get moving, or we won't get a seat!" James bellowed cheerfully. Sirius flinched.

"Merlin, Moony, please tell him to shut up," he begged, rubbing sunken and bleary eyes. "Or I'm really going to have to kill him."

He was no better by their Charms lesson, and slumped silent in his chair next to James. Professor Flitwick hadn't noticed yet: or then again, perhaps he had, and was enjoying the peace and quiet.

"I feel like hell," Sirius moaned.

"You've got nobody to blame but yourself," Remus said, although Sirius' agony was softening him up. Should he let Sirius have that painkilling potion? Then he remembered the stampeding sheep and Mrs Floral Print.

Perhaps not just yet.

Professor Flitwick perched on a stool to write out the instructions for Silencing Charms on the blackboard, and Zenobia Fredericks, a Hufflepuff sitting directly in front of them, squirmed around in her seat to talk to them.

"Hey lads," she said, nudging James' elbow. Sirius' head came up off his folded arms to see what was happening. "Have a good weekend?"

The other three, without a word, all looked at Sirius. The haggard look gave way to an enormous grin.

"Good? It was bloody brilliant!" he said.