Title: Way After Midnight (Уже далеко за полночь)
Author: Beash
Translator: LaSuen
Summary: Crookshanks' POV. Crookshanks wants happiness for his mistress. Would he go out of his way to get what he wants?
Warnings: violence
A/N: My heartful thanks to Beash for letting me make this translation. The original fic is stupendous, I can only hope that the translation renders at least half of its beauty. Since it's the cat's point of view, this translation is not beta-ed, and a whole lot of mistakes was consciously deliberate. Crookshanks is loads smart; althought his grammer might not be perfect, his vocabulary is abundant.
As always, reviews are love :)
Way After Midnight
It's way after midnight. Moon's like a savoury piece of cheese–– or better be it butter, 'cause I don't like cheese that much. If only I'd had wings, with such pleasure I'd have soared up into the jet-black sky and swallowed this ruddy Moon–– er–– a piece of butter. But I'm ain't a bird. Maybe, in my next life? Although, in my next life I'll be a cat all the same. So ginger, so amber-eyed, in one word – so incredibly handsome.
We, cats, sleep rarely at night. People explain it by our "chasing mice and other stuff", but they are not quite right. At night, we watch the life. The life of our kins, plants and, of course, humans who call themselves our "masters". Idiots. We are their masters, not they ours.
We know for sure the character, the habits, the peculiarities and the weak points of our charges. It takes us a month to live with them, and we already can say such a lot about them what they themselves don't even suspect about.
My girl. She does not think she's my mistress. I'm positively sure about this.
She's smart. I swear to Great Persian Cat that in, say, twenty years she'll become the most famous witch in the world, the first in the history defender of elves' rights and wizarding creatures, for example, me. Thick-headed top dogs in the Ministry think about us, cats, as stupid and dumb, like the only thing we can do is to purr. And also, some scientists established that at one blow we can catch up to ten mouses. For the birds! Of course, they admit our wizarding pedigree, but, according to them, it almost doesn't tell us from ordinary cats.
So, you already know that I wish only good for my girl, wish her success and happiness. With her brain nothing else could be desired! Though, what does a girl need to be happy? Of course, a friendly, close-knit family. A loving, caring and… rich husband. The only problem is to find one…
And here I can say with all certainty – she doesn't understand nothing in this. I smelled it momentarily – she's in love with her red-haired friend. I was suspicious about him from the very beginning; for such a long time he kept this rat that ain't a rat at all, but a chunky, nasty, disgusting men. Pah, a man! Seems like I've lived among people for more than four hundred years, but sometimes – click, and – oh that must be worms in my stomach, or fleas that gnawing my precious shaffran fur even more stronger; and I begin calling mans–– er–– sorry, mens… men! Phew, sorry, I just caught one. In a nutshell, from time to time I mess up the names of these creatures.
So, here we go, a boy that is loved by my girl. His hair is so, so red – just like my fur. Only it does not flatter me, not the smallest bit: I am smart, and his head is wormful, or gormless, as people say. He's a stupid idiot: instead of inviting my girl to Hogsmead or just taking her for a walk, he does nothing but fight with her. He sure doesn't know the truth about his own 'rat', and that is why, when I try to catch it, he blames my girl who is not to blame at all… wouldn't you know it, she 'bought an ugly thing' – me! And how many worms in your brains should you have to say such a thing! If only he knew who hid behind the shabby skin of his little squatty beast…
But he has no brains for it. And this idiot makes my poor girl cry for the umpteenth time.
It's way after midnight, but she is not sleeping – she is crying into her pillow, stroking my silky fur. She's complaining to me about him. She thinks I couldn't help her.
She's wrong.
Besides, I've found an ideal man for her. He is probably not that smart as my girl is, but he's clever enough. He's brave. And faithful. He doesn't bully noone. And he is even a godson of my four-legged friend – Sirius. Truth be told, though, Sirius is not real, just like the red boy's rat. He's an animagus. He's escaped from the prison for wizards – Azkaban. Bigheads from the Ministry behave just like the boy my girl loves. They think – although, how could one call this action 'thinking'? – Sirius betrayed the parents of his godson. To be candid, I didn't look into that in detail – why would I bother to remember anything I don't need to remember? We, cats, listen only to what we need to listen.
On the whole, actually it was Peter Pettigrew who betrayed these parents, and he's this 'rat' of the boy my girl loves. And I must catch it.
Oh my, what have I been telling you?
Oh yes, about an ideal man for my little girl. Harry Potter. I'm sure: anyone but him would dump her as a dead mouse. He's way too honest and decent for such a thing.
I'm trying to make Hermione, my smarty girl, fall in love with this outstanding boy.
I'm trying to show her that this Weasley boy is in fact an idiot. Yes, yes, he is the most unremarkable and primitive of all the boys in Hogwarts.
I'm trying to humiliate him. To bite him. To scratch him. To transmit all my worms into his always hungry stomach for that matter.
He has a sweet tooth, fleas eat him! Only thinks, only dreams about how to stuff his stomach.
But all my noble tries are in vain.
Almost like a worm cycle in cats.
I want to catch his rat – he is irritated – he fights with Hermione – they have a row – he leaves, he is all anger, like a hungry dog – she runs into her room and cries in her pillows all nights – and I, instead of cleansing my tummy from worms, go to soothe my girl down.
* * *
The red idiot is feeling his singed eyebrows. Perfect Harry Potter gawks at his friend. Fleas damn me, is it just me or can Harry Potter look stupid as well?
"He's right, Harry," the red one slowly turns to his friend. "We should get a move one, you know… ask someone. We don't want to end up with a pair of trolls." Just how stupid is that, I ask you! A pair of trolls!
Get ready, guys, now you'll see with your own eyes how my Hermione will be upset again…
"A pair of… what, excuse me?" My girl blushes. I've warned you – she's not going to like it.
"Well––you know," says this idiot, shrugging. "I'd rather go alone than with –– with Eloise Midgen, say." Argh, would you rather tell her that you want to mate a pretty! But here you are, upsetting my Hermione, fleas damn me! Oh, please don't cry, my little girl, please don't cry…
"Her acne's loads better lately," she is still trying to put in his head that good looks do not take all the cake!
"And she's really nice!" Save your breath, save your breath, honey. Maybe you'll make a potion that'll add some brains to those who in so extreme a need thereof?
"Her nose is off-center!" Well, you're the one who'd cavil at every trifle, now, would you not?
"Oh I see," Hermione says, bristling. "So, basically, you're going to take the best-looking girl who'll have you, even if she's completely horrible?" Bah, we've just got it straight, have we not?
"Er––yeah, that sounds about right." See? He's not even arguing the point!
"I'm going to bed," Hermione snapped, and she swept off toward the girls' staircase without another word. I'm coming, my girl, I'm coming…
And here she sits alone on the bed, yet again. She's crying, and I'm purring. I have no idea what I could do. Harry is in love with some Chinese girl. I've bitten her ankle once, so she nearly cast a spell at me. That was a close one.
What to do?
Hermione's complaining to me: "Why I'm so ugly? Why, Crookie? Why does Ron think that looks are the only thing that matter?" Because he is a stud, Hermione, he is made that way…
I still wish her happiness, just like a year ago. Now Harry is inaccessible.
* * *
The ball. I can hardly make my way through the crowds of people in a rash dance. Watch where you step, you yucky cur! Here goes the most beautiful tomcat in the entire world.
Meh, here they are. Arguing.
Hermione has a new boyfriend – Victor Krum. He's handsome, older than she is, he plays Quidditch very gut, and he's smart, brave and faithful.
But I do know – she does not love him. She is all smitten with this Weasley boy.
And finally, I understood: her feelings are reciprocal. This was a terrible blow for me. It ruined all my grandiose plans.
I saw this Weasley looking at her dancing. He now regretted he'd invited her in the very last moment.
Fleas thunder me! She's leaving! Glory to all the Great Persian cats!
She's with Kram. Better him that the Weasley boy, after all.
I wish her happiness. With a smart, handsome, faithful man. Not like this Weasley.
They are holding hands. We, cats, don't torture ourselves that much – we rub against the kitty and mate her. Truth be told, we have to wait till spring, because kitties love us mostly in spring, opposite to us, tomcats, who are ready to be with them in any time of year.
Fleas damn me! He wants to kiss her.
Yes!
Please!
Have mercy over your poor and noble slave, you Great Persian Cats!
No. She doesn't want to.
Yet again, all my plans are ruined. I have to begin all right from the start. From Harry.
* * *
It's way after midnight. Disappointed by my misfortune, or to be precise, by my girl's misfortune, I fell into thinking about why I haven't noticed the Weasley boy with his crush before this evening. Maybe, I've been thinking, he isn't capable of? Peh, it might be so. Fleas tear me, I can't believe that he is attractive to such a smart, beautiful, wonderful girl! He would lack brains for it! I thought he could only open his mouth and shovel down the food into his paunch. And here – bang! – a girl. There must be something to it. I must look into this. I'll never let anyone hurt my Hermione. Upon my feline honour!
* * *
It's way after midmight. I'm looking at the Moon, which now reminds me not a piece of butter, but Weasley's deformed head. I dream about that some time I'd pluck up all my courage and… fleas damn me, what am I talking about?! What am I, a coward?! Not for any sausages! Right now I'm ready to go and bite this Weasley's ass. Or better slash his idiotic freckled ugly phiz. And tear the wisps of his rusty hair out of his noddle, which swarms with putrid tapeworms.
Third year in a row I'm watching them. I have to see the same picture for three years.
But then, Harry is moving forwards. He's already kissed his Chinese girl.
Telling it like it is, I don't have any idea why people kiss. What does it procure? They put their lips together, and sometimes they even… well, one of the cats I know told me once – they push their tongues inside each other's mouths. Disgusting. Like ball-worm transmission. I'd eat a doggy, but never would I do anything of the sort to my kitties.
My poor girl. I'd give the world for your happiness with Harry. At least, with Harry. Because I begin to see that Potter too is not an ideal boy, which I reckoned him to be for a bunch of years.
I saw that you were upset, having heard the news about his first kiss. I hope you so wanted to be in Chinese girl's shoes. You'll be soon.
* * *
It's way after midnight. You don't sleep again, wailing in your pillow. You're not crying, not even weeping – wailing like a newborn baby. Poor girl.
And all's because of the Weasley boy. You know, he's not sleeping this night too. I can bet on the piece of butter that this albino girl from my girl's room is not in her bed, and Weasley is having fun with her now.
Sometimes I wander around the castle – we, cats, know a few doors out of rooms which are unknown to the most experienced marauders. For instance, if you push with your paw the right hind leg of the sofa in the Griffindor common room (you see, it was never moved; immediately I took that in notice), there opens a small trapdoor to the corridor. Somebody, undoubtedly clever, contrived this little gizmo especially for cats.
So. Yesterday night I was wandering around the castle. Every once in a while I meet Mrs. Norris, she belongs to the local caretaker, Filch. That time I saw her too, we've talked for a time about our feline affairs, discussed some students. Mrs. Norris told me that one ruddy bastard stationed a mousetrap beside Filch's office. In the end, there was not she who got into it, but Filch himself. Hopping, he tried to take it off his leg, but with each jump the wire only tightened around his ankle, and besides it snapped his finger. The kitty said that first she thought it was Peeves fooling around, usually the ghost howls like a madman when he's pissed off – but, in fact, it was Filch alright. Well, frankly speaking, I didn't care a straw about the old man, 'cause a couple of times he smacked me on the nose with his broom just 'cause I 'brought too much dirt into the castle', whereas I stepped only two metres along the damp grass, and there was no dirt whatsoever; so, in all likelihood, the old man just suffers from paranoia. It seems like it's incurable, so let us all pray to Great Persian Cats so that this little old man would kick the bucket any time soon.
Well, last night I walked near some room. And heard this. The familiar hateful voice, if this is allowed to be called a voice. I pawed the door open and became the witness of a dreadful scene.
The red idiot was undressing this albino girl. She was lying on the table, from time to time moaning like "Ron, Ron… please…"
"Wait a sec, I'm just a little nervous," he was whispering to her.
And this dunderhead hoped that Hermione would reciprocate his feelings?
I grinded my teeth with malignance. Without further ado, I attacked Weasley and thrust my claws and fangs into his neck. The stud howled, the albino girl squealed, and I slid my claws along her bare chest. There will be hell to pay. I'll make your life miserable, those who hurt my Hermione!
The Weasley boy, having regained consciousness now, pressed his palm against his lover's lips and hissed: "Shush, Lavanda! Filch can hear…"
You know, I was stunned by his quick thinking. But even if they are silent, this won't help them to get rid of Filch. I need only to find Mrs. Norris…
Like hell they can fool me! I'm not so easy to be taken in. You want to slap and tickle – you won't get it! Filch – sure, with my tip-off – right at 2 a.m. checks all the classrooms.
My poor girl.
Why did you fall in love with this idiot?
He'll dump you.
He's not worthy of you.
Don't torment my noble heart.
Find yourself another boy who would support you in everything, studying and stuff.
Who won't be fighting with you, after all.
Who won't hurt you.
There won't be any happiness with this Weasley boy, would you undrestand it.
Purring under my breath, I'm falling into slumber on Hermione's lap.
* * *
It's way after midnight. Would you imagine it, she is not sleeping again. No, she is not crying this time.
She's with him. I knew, I saw, I thought that I should've stopped this nightmare, but I understand: I just can't. All I can is to just tear the quilt with my claws and gnaw at the fluff, trying to suppress my desire to do the same thing with Weasley.
I can't understand the red idiot: he says he wants my Hermione. But why copulating if you're not doing these people kittens?
We, cats, have it all figured out. As I've already said, our kitties – well, at least, the majority of them – love us, for the most part, in spring. We, poor tomcats, have to wait for them for long months. And when we see one of them, rolling from side to side and showing us all her delights, how can we ever reject such enticing a proposition? Never a normal tomcat rejects such a kitty. Though, truth be told, some of us maybe do. One of my acquaintances didn't never mate a kitty in his entire life. They say, he's 'castrated'. I was told that his 'masters' brought him into some hospital, and there they gave him an injection, and after that he didn't remember nothing. He woke up when he was already home. He stayed in bed for the whole day, ate melted butter and drank boiled milk. The next morning he ran outside, but he didn't pay any attention to kitties, he chatted with them maintaining the same composed attitude as he did with us. Now we try to avoid him, he is so weird a catto.
We have freedom.
You know, kitties can really punch you after mating – they, would you think about it, are hurt. Silly, silly ones. But, anyways, we have to scamper away – better not face an indignant kitty. They have claws like sharp pieces of broken glass and teeth that bite worse than fleas.
Hey, why am I so stuck on cats? People have it their own way.
They can copulate for a really long while, compairing to us – we can handle this in ten seconds. I can't get these whims of people's.
And I am such an idiot when I allow Hermione to mate with this Weasley boy. I wish her happiness, fleas damn me! But is this the only way she can get there?
* * *
It's far after midnigh. I walk along the streets of London.
It's autumn now, and I had my time copulating with two kitties. They didn't want it though, but my sharp fangs got it all done. I'm trying to seek oblivion with them, just like a human. I'm trying to actually enjoy it.
I don't want to come back home, because there's no one, except Hermione. Her husband Weasley is with his Potter friend, somewhere at the rented apartment. Both are occupied with hookers. Both are drunk as skunks, fleas darn them.
I'm an idiot, I know. I thought Potter was decent, I thought he'd never betray Hermione. I was so wrong, he's worse even than Weasley. He's traded his beautiful red-haired wife for some hooker. As has Weasley; though in this dimwit I had no doubts.
I still think about it. For such a long time I tried to bring happiness on my girl, she was so little, so vulnerable there back. Now she's mature, strong and smarter. I can retrieve onle one answer, but I can't put up with it. I can't let myself.
I love Hermione. I love my little girl, my mistress. I dream of becoming a human. I dream of turning into a real man, who would be red-haired as I am, who would be amber-eyed, freckled and robust. In a nutshell, handsome. I know that I couldn't do that.
I suffer.
But I know that I am myself a human. I have a human soul, I can already think not in a catlike way, not that primitive as my kins do. To stuff their stomachs, to mate a lot of kitties – these are their aspirations. Just like Weasley's, huh? He's the most primitive creature on Earth.
I wanted to be better than he – I've accomplished this. I became assured that only I myself am worthy of the most gorgeous woman of all times – Hermione Granger.
Yes, she can't be mine. She would never love me the way I love her. She'd think this is wrong.
Well, as long as she can't be mine, she can't be anyone's.
* * *
It's way after midnight. This jerk approaches – I know he wants to kill me. My tries bore some fruit – for the entire month I've been screwing with him.
He leans…
"Avada––"
But his death bringing words are too little too late – I thrust my fangs in his ugly muzzle. I tear his skin apart with my teeth, biting it to smithereens. I want to deform him.
He's trying to get me off himself, he's seizing me by my paws – stupid idiot, I'm far stronger than you. Much more fervently I stick my fangs and claws into his body.
I'm reaching for the muscles – I'm digging my claws into them, hard. Weasley is hollering, but his wails fall on deaf ear. I couldn't care less. He brought it on himself. He asked for it.
I rip his white shirt and leave a mark on his chest – a red line. Then I slide my claws along his throat, making two lines there as well. This way they'll know that this is the same… person.
Quickly I disappear into the air – I've learnt to apparate. I'm a wizarding creature, after all. I can do lots of things.
"It's way after midnight, but not for just Weasley this is the last night ever," I think with a quiet grin, wending my path towards Potter's Manor.
END
_ _ _
Thanks for reading it :) I hope you'll share your piece of mind with me =)