Summary: Nobody listens to the dog. If they had how many lives would have been saved? Fang-centered drabble. For HSWWF.

Disclaimer:The Wizarding World of Harry Potter does not belong to LittleTee, (who shall henceforth be referred to as "The Author.") While the plot of this fanfiction, (henceforth to be referred to as the "Story,") is of The Author's creation, neither the characters nor the locations therein belong to The Author, as they belong to JK Rowling, with the exception of any characters or locations within this Story which have no representation in cannon-these original characters and locations are the property of The Author. This is a work of fiction produced for the single purpose of entertaining fans of Harry Potter, and no Copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note:This is a short drabble for extra-credit for a class on the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Forum.

Submission for: Care of Magical Creatures - Assignment 4: Extra Credit.

Task: Once You've finished with your lesson, you may write one drabble that includes Fang the Boar Hound as one of the main characters to earn further house points.

Word Count: 197

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I smelled something different about Quirrell the very first night he came back from his trip. He tried to hide it with garlic and oils but I could sense the other presence and the lingering smell of decay. Something was not right with the professor. I had tried to warn my keeper, Rubeus Hagrid, but like other humans he doesn't understand me. I bark and growl whenever Quirrell comes close, but do I get praised for alerting them to danger or trying to defend my home from something wicked? No. I am reminded to be quiet. So, I follow my commands, I am a good dog after all, and watch and wait for my time to show them all the danger lurking in Quirrell's robes... or under that hat of his.

Same for that blasted rat. He has a scent of not being exactly what he appears to be, but then again he is a rat.

I gently pawed the tattered rug by the fireplace and made my bed for the night. The words of my late mother hunting me as I chase after sleep.

"Nobody listens to the dog, Junior. You'll do best to remember that."

Fini

Author's Note 2: You know the drill. Read, then review. Please :).