It had been ugly, painful, and fruitless, attempting to hold Shadow still for Hagrid's examination—until Hagrid had scruffed the cat between two fingers and held him high.
Neville had never heard anything make such menacing sounds. "Damn your claws," he muttered at Shadow, who was curled up by the hearth in Hagrid's hut against a protective, albeit wary, Fang.
"There now, see tha'? They like each other."
Stirring the cauldron of Scar Balm, which Hagrid had assured him had venom-leeching properties to benefit Shadow's wound, too, Neville thought of the fire ficuses. "Fang's warm, is all. Shadow's a rank opportunist."