Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.
Hermione looked over at her bed, where Crookshanks was currently stretching and finding his favorite nap spot (that mysteriously changed each night), and smiled. While she was not fond of Robert A. Heinlein's entire body of work, she had to agree with him completely on that one: she loved that cat to bits, and was certain that a big part of that love dated back to that day at Diagon Alley, when she eyed that pansy face that, supposedly, nobody wanted, and saw a shared sense of independence.
"It's not that no one wanted you; you were just waiting for me to arrive, weren't you, gorgeous?"
Slowly, Crookshanks blinked. "Meow."
She pulled her ponytail free and gave her work notes a final look before preparing for bed, but decided on a quick shower first. Setting aside comfortable clothes at the end of her bed, she then allowed her body to relax under the hot water.
At the end of her bed. Oh, no.
Cursing her poor choice of clothing placement, Hermione shook her head and laughed, still under the comforting stream. It's going to be on the floor, anyway.
Sure enough, as she stepped out of the bathroom, her clothes had been messed with, the evidence of chubby paws everywhere; but only her boy shorts were lying on the floor. Crookshanks looked pleased with himself, a king watching the land from his throne (the left pillow).
"Crookshanks! Must you?"
The half-Kneazle's narrowed eyes were answer enough. Sighing, she charmed her hair dry, got dressed and settled under the sheets.
"One of these days you'll have to explain why my underwear isn't good enough for you."
A lazy "meew" was all she got in return. Hermione chuckled, her eyes closing.
Most cats have quirks that confuse their owners to no end. The love of boxes, balls of yarn, laser dots… paper bags, even.
Her Crookshanks?
To the exclusion of all other clothing, that bloody cat liked men's underwear.
The discovery of Crookshanks'… wardrobe preference (Hermione used condition as well)… happened early, although to this day it remained a secret to most of Hermione's friends. (Or so she thought)
During the summer break between her third and fourth terms, her mother started to notice some of her husband's underwear missing from the laundry basket – and while she had expected anomalies to occur inside her house once Hermione started to develop her talents as a witch, this certainly wasn't one of them.
The mystery took three days to solve – a blessing, considering Mr. Granger favored quality, not quantity, and would soon need shopping. Hermione, a bit tired from her parents' increasingly wild theories as to why the pieces of clothing were disappearing, retreated to her room for some peace and quiet. Crookshanks was barely audible under her bed, and the girl's logical mind only now realized how much time he'd been spending under it. Bending to check that ginger mess of hair, she found a satisfied cat staring back at her owner.
Over a pile of not-so-neatly arranged man's underwear.
Hermione was completely mortified. Her mother, only mildly upset. Curiously, the man whose property had been 'stolen' was the only one amused enough to laugh, admitting that this should have been his first guess.
"Your first guess, Dad? Why would Crookshanks be your first guess?" she demanded, holding the cat nervously in her arms, massaging his fur. The cat did not seem to understand the agitation, but appreciated the care.
"Well, sweetheart, you wouldn't use magic outside the school to make my clothes vanish, would you?"
"Of course I wouldn't!"
"Then what other choice was there, really?" (Logic, a shrug and a smile; Dr. Granger's favorite trifecta)
As her parents left her room, she exchanged one, two, three glances with Crookshanks.
"Honestly, what were you thinking, Crookshanks?"
"Meow."
"You can't go around stealing Dad's clothes! And it's not as if you can tell me you thought the colors were pretty; two of them were… were shades of grey," she added hastily.
"Meeew?"
"Well, that's okay, he wasn't really angry with you. Just promise me it won't happen again, okay?"
There was something odd about the way her cat looked back at Hermione; sure did not look like a solemn vow to her.
She would only fully understand that look sometime after The War.
"You two are meant to be."
She would hear it everywhere she went, and it made her uneasy. For a witch that loved her orderly potion instructions, there was something about feeling like you don't have options that truly scared Hermione.
If that also scared Ron, certainly he hid it better than she did. That they would engage in a serious relationship once the dust settled was a fact that even she wouldn't dispute. Moving in together to a small flat also seemed just right back then.
And it was everything it could be. Ron was her first love, young and unnerving and sweet as they come. His eyes were captivating in the right way, and the boyish, too-honest answers that she once hated were almost endearing at this point – he couldn't lie to her; he didn't want to lie to her.
"Really, what more could I want?" she constantly asked herself. And it calmed the uneasiness for a few days, and she smiled more, and it was okay to be happy. After teenage years with far more angst and fear than anyone should have to deal with, it was finally time to take a long breath and just enjoy the little things. She could live with drinking from the carton and forgetting your clothes here and there. Ron would learn… in time.
And then Ron's half-snort, half-laugh woke her one day. First time he ever woke up before she did (a bad omen, if there ever was one).
"What's so amusing this early?" she groaned.
"Crookshanks. I thought he had stopped playing around with underwear. Still doesn't like mine for some reason. Doesn't seem to care much for your bikini as well."
Hermione froze in place. She had never told Ron about Crookshanks stealing her father's shorts. Very slowly, she turned around. Her beloved cat was perched over a wooden dresser that used to belong to her parents, hissing at the floor, where Ron's briefs now stood, far from the drawer. Her underwear was not far from his.
"How did you…?" and even before the answer, she knew it. Her hands shot to her mouth in panic, and her eyes sought Ron's for confirmation.
To his credit, Ron was every bit the sheepish boy he always was when he knew he'd done something wrong, red cheeks to match. "We agreed we'd never tell you, but it was just so funny now that I couldn't help myself."
"We? Who's we, Ron?"
"Our whole year's dorm, really. Remember how Crookshanks went and stole Neville's passwords back at third year? Well, we saw him plenty around our dorm ever since you bought him – sneaked around when he could and we had to thr – erm, convince him to leave all the time."
"And…?"
"And, he… made a habit of messing around our clothes when we left them lying around. Particularly" and here Ron did his best not to laugh, "Underpants".
Hermione pulled her pillow over her head, deciding it shouldn't be really that difficult to live with it in front of her face for the rest of her life. Ron shook his head, laughing and trying to pull it away.
"Come, now, Hermione, we all had a laugh about it and started locking the door. Problem solved! We just didn't tell you because we knew this would be exactly how you'd react."
"You still should have told me!" she wailed, muffled by the pillow.
"Oh, clearly it would've been for the best! We would have loved a pillow-faced girl to walk around with us around the castle," he chuckled. "Cats are crazy, if you ask me – yours? Just a tad more than the others, that is all."
Peeking from under the pillow, she narrowed her eyes. "And you say he did this to… to… everyone's clothes?" (She still refused to use the specific word)
Ron nodded, still patiently pulling the pillow away from her. "He had a thing for making a bed out of Seamus's and Neville's – you'll have to ask him why."
That led to another half hour of hiding. Crookshanks calmly watched them wrestle for the pillow before attending other important business – claws didn't sharpen themselves, after all.
Once the terrible truth was out – and Ron practically took an Unbreakable Vow to never mention it again, not to her or anyone else – Hermione decided to take Crookshanks for a walk. It was still chilly, just the way they liked it. She chose their favorite square, the favorite bench. The ginger cat stretched his legs pursuing a pidgeon with a bit of a death wish; the bloody bird never flew so far that it could feel safe from Crookshanks' menace.
Watching the chase gave Hermione time to think; way too much time. Was it okay for a girl that had all that she had to feel like something was still missing?
"I love him," she said to no one in particular. "I know I do."
Then why doesn't it feel like it's enough?
She wanted it to be so. She didn't want anyone else, but she didn't want things the way they were. It was all so confusing…
Crookshanks suddenly stopped his chase, lowering his bottlebrush tail as he calmly returned to the bench, leaping swiftly to Hermione's lap, like he always did when she needed him. She massaged a spot behind his ears absent-mindedly.
"Clever Crookshanks," she muttered, a thin smile decorating her lips. Yellow eyes blinked slowly back at her. "You like him too, don't you? I mean, not his briefs, clearly, but… you warmed up to him… didn't you?"
A quiet purr followed; as long as the big ginger knew the small ginger was the alpha male and Hermione's true love, there was no cause for war, apparently. They would coexist and continue to make Crookshanks as happy as possible.
But when cat and woman looked at each other again, they knew her decision was made. When she opened the door, eyes still a bit puffy, Ron looked at her, the smell of breakfast being cooked all around him.
"We need to talk," she said, so quietly she was afraid he wouldn't listen.
Ron settled the food down. To her surprise – and relief that she never admitted – he smiled, the same thin, sad, understanding smile she had given Crookshanks not an hour ago.
"I know."
"Some party." He sat down next to Hermione.
"Some party, indeed," she agreed, smiling.
The briefest of moments passed as they observed the couples dancing. "Should I ask "So, how are you?" or did you answer that one way too many times already?"
"Let's see… you'd be the seventeenth person to ask."
"Since Ron got engaged?"
"Oh, Heavens, no! Tonight. Since he got engaged, I probably answered that many hundred times." She pauses. "To your mother, at least once every two weeks."
He nods. "Bless her. To be fair, she always had a soft spot for you. We all do."
"Well, since we're being fair, I am excellent daughter-in-law material."
They look at each other; there are smirks, and then full laughter. She always did like Charlie's laugh.
"But seriously, now…"
"I'm fantastic, Charlie." And she really was. "He's one of my best friends, one of the best men I know, and I will ALWAYS love him for what he meant to me. We just didn't belong together. As it turned out, we both knew it. And I'm happy for them, I really am."
Charlie nodded in acquiescence, suddenly thoughtful. Hermione gave him a light shove; she sure didn't mean to make people sad just by sitting next to her.
"I'm sure Molly will recover, Charlie."
"Well, let's not be hasty to break her heart. We still have a few Weasleys available."
And suddenly it was awkward. SO very awkward. Charlie looked down at his glass, mentally blaming it on the Firewhisky; so did she. He excused himself a minute or so later and Hermione didn't see him for the rest of the night.
Something silly to bury, that was it. Of course he wasn't implying anything about them… not Charlie.
But it was still awkward when he ran into her at the Ministry while visiting his father. Awkward at New Year's Eve when the surviving members of the Order met to honor their heroes. Awkward when Bill's youngest was born and everyone gathered to congratulate him (Hermione and Harry were Weasleys at the end of the day).
It wasn't something that perturbed her daily life, but she'd prefer to be able to talk to Charlie normally sometime in the future, and clearly she'd need to take the first step (men).
So, when she needed to run Ministry assignments all around Europe – including Romania – she made it a personal matter to extend her visit there for a day and find a certain Dragon Sanctuary nearby.
While Charlie seemed surprised and anxious when he saw her, Hermione stood her ground and insisted with Charlie that he was being silly; and whatever issues he had with her, they were perfectly capable of sorting them out.
And so they did, thoroughly. In the span of nearly twelve hours, they managed to promote awkward to complicated.
It had probably something to do with having her legs wrapped around his neck. Or straddling Charlie while holding on to broad, tanned shoulders as he…
…well, complicated was the right word for it.
She blamed it on mutual loneliness, on both of them focusing too much on their jobs. Ultimately, she blamed it on Charlie, because, well, he was Charlie; with his not-quite-shy smile, the muscles – and why not, the scars. That masculine aura about him that made even the most confident woman in the vicinity secretly wish he'd sweep her off her feet and carry her home.
Bloody Charlie. Bloody, bloody Charlie.
So Hermione came home from her duties and did her best to put the episode to the back of her mind – hard as that proved to be. Especially when a dragonologist started to appear at the most random hours of the night, more often than not removing her clothes before the door was completely shut.
And maybe she started telling herself "just once more". Started using less – and increasingly revealing – clothes to bed. Got creative and sent him a Portkey to her bathroom and told him when she'd be showering.
Charlie was always very enthusiastic to show his appreciation for these 'subtle' presents. He wanted her; she knew this much. He gave the woman inside Hermione a crash course in feeling desired, and that woman was every bit the eager learner her slightly younger self had been with every other aspect of her life.
It was passionate and carefree. She started tracing his tattoos with her fingers and he started asking about her day; it was blissful oblivion before – and after – the sensory overload of his hands on her skin and her moans on his ear, a vicious circle of pleasure. It was everything that she felt was missing from her previous romantic efforts. Not only he wasn't afraid to explore her; he made a Grail quest out of it.
But morning would come, and Charlie would fetch his boxer shorts from the newest dark corner Crookshanks hid them in, to the cat's great disappointment – expressed in claws and narrowed yellow eyes. And he'd kiss her kindly and leave.
Charlie brought over treats and gained the cat's affection and her bed's warmth another night, only to leave the next day.
Slowly, after weeks – or was it months? – Hermione's logical mind managed to focus long enough to ask the questions they avoided during their hunger to be together.
Why they never left her flat or his cabin in Romania.
Why they didn't tell anyone about being together.
Why they were so reluctant to take it a step further. They were great together, after all; weren't they? It was everything that was missing…
…but other than what had been missing before, what do you have now?
She asked herself that question, over and over. Then there was rapid breathing, and bare skin and Hermione was taking her time along a thin trail of hair and questions didn't matter anymore.
That sense of novelty left a wide open road to routine; like most routines, they took it for granted. And eventually it shattered, on a lazy Saturday evening when Ron showed up at Hermione's door. She did wonder why their takeout hadn't been buzzed in, but only after actually answering the knocks.
To Ron's credit, he did not ask why the shower was running and Hermione had bed hair; he knew better, and respected their past too much to do so. He did, however, spot a pair of his brother's favorite old boots near her couch that he had seen way too many times at The Burrow not to recognize.
He paused, she froze, and the water still ran at the bathroom. Swallowing hard, Ron took a step back, making his way out of the corridor, out of that floor, out of that building. Hermione didn't try to stop him or move an inch to close the door. She let the tears run free as they came, putting a hand over her mouth, feeling Crookshanks' fur snaking around her legs.
By the time Charlie found her, the answers to all the questions they didn't want to ask went tumbling over them like an avalanche, while the cat watched it all, apprehensive.
For once, he did not fight Charlie for his shorts.
Surprisingly (well, not so much), Harry was the first to reach out. He chose a cold Sunday to appear, cradling Crookshanks under his arm and gently leading Hermione out of the flat and into the local tea shop they used to visit when schedules permitted.
It was only well into their first mug, when Crookshanks was comfortably nesting around Harry's chair ("a fine bromance", he called it), that she gathered the courage to speak.
"Have you seen him lately?"
"At the Department, when I can."
"And… how is he?"
"You wouldn't like if I told him how you've been doing lately, would you?"
"Well, no! But…"
Harry gave her a gentle smile as a final answer. He wanted to make it clear that he was not going to trade messages back and forth between them. If either Ron or Hermione wanted to straighten things out, they'd need to do it face to face. He was confident that they would.
"So why are you here, then?" she eyed him suspiciously.
"I need to buy underpants and thought Crookshanks could tag along."
Hermione's eyes were barely visible slits, exactly the same as her pet, and Harry laughed.
"Too soon?" he managed.
"Did I ever tell you how much I enjoy sarcasm, Harry?"
"Not really."
"Exactly. And you didn't answer my question."
"Oh, I don't know. You don't answer your messages. You never visit. It could be the fact that you're one of my best friends and I missed you."
"My parents called you."
"A completely unrelated fact."
She smiled. Who knew she'd find out how it feels to have a brother, after all?
"I missed you too. It's just…"
"… You needed time. And, for what it's worth, I think that it's all Ron needs as well."
"I was sleeping with his older brother, Harry."
A very old woman leered as she walked past them. Hermione made a mental note to keep her voice down (and another mental note not to care about a complete stranger's opinion).
"Yes, and since you brought it up," Harry placed his elbows on the table, leaning only slightly closer, "did you get to talk to Charlie at all lately?"
"Not since I heard that he tried to talk to Ron and got punched in the face."
Harry did his best not to chuckle. "When the guys at work told me Ron had left quite the shiner on his brother's face, I didn't believe them." He raised his hands. "Don't worry; less than a handful of people know what they really argued about."
"Maybe I should give him a free shot at me, as well," she tried to quip, genuine hurt pouring out of her voice.
"It's going to be okay, Hermione. Trust me."
"He punched Charlie, Harry. Charlie. How can you say that?"
"Because it's Ron we're talking about," he started, leaning back on his chair and pattering his fingers around the mug. "You know, the more I thought about it over the years, the more convinced I grew of Ron's uncanny ability to move on, to push forward. He just needs to sort this out inside his head first."
"I'm not…"
"Hermione, when he walked in on the two of you, for that split second he saw your future with a Weasley that wasn't him. Right there, it didn't matter that he's happily married, it didn't matter how amicable your break-up turned out to be; he didn't pause to ask the right questions."
"People forget to do that sometimes," she mumbled, hiding behind her tea. Harry studied her face for a moment.
"You weren't in love, were you?"
She took her time considering both the question and who made it. Not many people could ask her something so personal and do so as bluntly as he did. Harry could, though.
"No. No, I wasn't."
"And…?"
"I don't believe he was, either." Hermione set her mug back on the table, contemplating the fog outside. "I guess… we both wanted to, but couldn't. To be perfectly honest, I don't think there ever will be another woman for Charlie after Tonks. I just didn't want to see it when we were together."
"Tonks? Really?"
She nodded. "It took me a while to figure it out, but yes. I don't suppose he ever recovered from her death; a part of him must've assumed that there would be time to be honest with her about his feelings. And then that time never came."
Hermione looked up and saw a very concerned look on Harry's face. She gave him a weak smile. "I want to be wrong, though. Charlie is a wonderful man, and he deserves someone that makes him happy." Her smile broadened for a second. "Someone that'll teach him how to choose flowers."
Crookshanks let out an oddly angry meow to that statement. "Dare I ask?" said Harry, eyebrow raised.
"I wouldn't tell you, anyway."
Harry smiled back at her, ordered two slices of what appeared to be a cake on top of another cake, and squeezed his best friend's hand.
"You deserve to be happy as well."
She squeezed his hand back.
"Look me in the eyes and tell me this will blow over, Harry. Just tell me that I'll be a normal part of Ron's and Charlie's lives again someday."
"Of course you will."
"Then, trust me when I tell you that I will be happy again."
"That's good to know." Harry smiled, and looked down at his feet to see the ginger cat lightly scratching the chair's leg. "So, about those underpants…"
"HARRY!"
For one as averse to Divination as he was, Harry's prediction held true.
It took time, dialogue and tears (all in massive doses), but life found its way to normality. So much that, one day, Hermione received a fluttering message at work. A message that made her stop everything she was doing, run to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, head into the Auror Office and, in a combined effort with Harry, nearly choke Ron to congratulate him on the baby girl that was on the way. He looked absolutely terrified, just like Ron should be.
They had never seen him this happy, either.
A few months later, Hermione left the Ministry with a sense of fulfillment that was hard to explain; that she was centered, that her life was – finally – in perfect balance. It made her ignore the persistent rain and make a longer walk home, picking up a set of new chess pieces along the way (the ones Crookshanks regularly attacked weren't 'healing' anymore; she could animate the new ones to entertain him).
She paused in front of a closed antique shop to admire a tea set that her mother might be interested in. Distracted, she didn't see a pair of gossiping teenagers pass around her, knocking her umbrella down and ignoring her completely.
"Hey!"
Cursing the current education children were given in that country (and wondering if cutting their hair with magic would be an adequate punishment), Hermione looked down to find that someone else's hand had already picked the object from the ground and now offered it back.
The gentleman didn't have an umbrella of his own, his dark hair completely wet to match the long drenched coat protecting him. Dark eyes that could be intimidating studied her, but with kindness. The curved nose wrinkled to get rid of a single annoying raindrop, and the lips parted with an affectionate smile she knew well.
"Viktor!"
"Hermy-own-ninny." The smile didn't waver when he spoke, and it made her laugh; his English had improved dramatically over the years, but the mispronunciation was still a private joke.
Blinking against the rain, Hermione's face lit up when Krum insisted to walk her home as he explained his presence in London (his friend, a broomstick artisan, had requested his opinion on a new project). She did her best to remember what she could about his life from the occasional Prophet's pieces – his career was one of the few reasons that made her follow the sports section. The only thing that came to mind was a gossip about a possible affair with a Spanish Chaser, and she didn't want to ask him about that right now.
Unfortunately, he was going back home that night, but would return in a week or so, in case she was available to meet him for lunch. "It's been too long since your last letter," he pointed out.
"Funny. I didn't see any coming from your corner of the world, either."
"Is vat how British people agree to lunch these days?"
Hermione smiled. "Only when Bulgarian people try to pin the fault of everything on us, Brits. See you next Saturday, then?"
"Next Saturday, then." He leaned to give her a gentle kiss on the cheek and waited until the door of the building was closed behind her before finding a dark alley to disapparate from.
As promised, Krum arrived the next weekend and Hermione convinced him that he was about to eat the best Italian meal of his life. He was pleased that she chose a Muggle place, where he wouldn't be swarmed by admirers; with the years, his natural talent for flying had been honed and perfected and his fame grew on a par with it, but much like another famous friend of hers, Viktor was very careful about maintaining a reserved life.
The lunch seemed to go by too fast, and both of them had afternoons partially free. Krum asked for help to buy his Bulgarian coach a birthday present – and when he mentioned he was quite the bookworm, the task didn't prove too taxing, albeit long. It was almost nightfall before she was satisfied with the purchase – he was okay with her first two picks. From the first bookstore.
Still, Viktor was grateful and insisted that she'd travel to Sardinia in two weeks to see a couple of Quidditch friendly matches, if she could. It was a beautiful stadium built near the shore, Muggle-proof and well worth the visit. She could even bring someone along.
Back at her flat, Hermione considered possible travel companions. Crookshanks leaped from the couch to the table and gave her an inquisitive stare.
"You're absolutely right," she told him, levitating treats an inch above the cat's nose, "it's in so short notice everyone will probably be occupied. And you could really use a tan."
It started with little denials, such as this, and they went on for a while.
Sardinia was where Hermione discovered that flying could be enjoyable, as long as you had the right teacher. And Viktor's regular visits to London continued to include some time to meet her. A museum, tea shops, a trip down Diagon Alley on a slow business day, all of these 'excursions' followed or preceded by meals from all around the world.
Hermione couldn't tell if it was always there or just crept up when she wasn't expecting to. There were signs this time, though, and she knew her heart a lot better. She allowed herself to be patient and enjoy every moment.
"It's the little things, Hermione", she repeated constantly. "Live them."
So when she came home to find Viktor waiting in front of her building, she was ready. Ready to hear that the cazadora española was only a rumor; that his business in London was finished by the time she helped picking those books. She was more than ready to feel the familiar heat of his embrace, marvel at the sound of his strong heartbeats, and be kissed for the first time all over again, welcoming the crazy butterflies dancing around her stomach. Exactly how it was supposed to be.
The sun permeated its way into her flat the next morning, causing Hermione to feel around for an empty bed and sit up straight.
She found Viktor by the door holding two steaming mugs.
"You were too peaceful to disturb." He sat right next to her, his eyes alive and intense. He seemed so content that her whole body awoke to this nearness.
"And you snore."
"I do not!" she exclaimed, hitting him in the arm with no visible effect.
It was his turn to laugh. "You do, but very softly; това е очарователно." She tried to pout and failed, lacing her fingers around her tea and allowing him to gently push locks of hair away to kiss her.
"Good morning."
"Very good," she agreed. Then she looked down and saw that he was only wearing his… trousers? Well, it's his first night here… maybe he isn't comfortable walking around in his…
Her eyes wandered to that same old dresser and she stopped thinking when Crookshanks came into view, still sound asleep with Krum's black boxer briefs over his fur like a blanket.
Oh, Merlin, why?
"Vat? He seemed to like it, so I left it there," Viktor shrugged.
"Viktor, you shouldn't have! He'll grow spoiled - I can't believe I'm saying this about my cat and men's underwear! – and, and what then?"
Another shrug. "I can always buy new underpants. But I can't find another you."
Hermione, rendered speechless, was saved when that ginger half-Kneazle – that conquered her heart way before any man ever could – lifted his head, looked directly at her, and blinked lazily in approval. By doing so, he gave Hermione reasons to worry that her smile would stretch the sides of her face permanently.
She gently placed a closed fist around Krum's abdomen – a mockery of a punch. "Don't go thinking you'll sweet-talk your way in here by making Crookshanks love you," she teased, taking in the mixed scent of his skin and the tea. Hermione could definitely get used to that combination.
"Dа. He really seems hard to please," Krum had to agree.