There is no home like the one you've got
'Cause that home belongs to you
The cat was a small, pitiful thing. The runt of her litter, with a matted tortoiseshell coat and one ear that was far more bent than the other. She spent the first few months of her life curled into the makeshift bed of straw at the shop and watching with wide, wide eyes as, one by one, the others were all whisked away into comforting embraces and bright smiles.
Sometimes she got a glance. A look of pity.
A few times, even a small, absent scratch behind the ears before the warm eyes would wander elsewhere, landing on one of the others: her littermates who'd been lucky enough to inherit her mother's soft, shining coat or radiant citrine eyes.
Until the boy with the disheveled black hair sauntered in, hands resting loosely in his pockets as he whistled a lively tune, hazel eyes peering into each enclosure before flitting away to the next. The cat watched this curious boy with curious eyes, a duller, brown-tinged shade of her mother's famed luminous amber.
She blinked once, twice, and on the third, she opened them to find the messy-haired boy gazing intently at her.
"This one," he decided, and the cat looked behind her to see who he was referring to — just as a hand reached into her enclosure, brushing over her head once before closing around her and pulling her out.
Her mewl was not one of discomfort but disbelief, as she was deposited into the boy's arms along with a small paper bag that smelled faintly of fish. The boy balanced her precariously on his shoulder as he handed a fistful of coins to the man behind the counter, then looped the bag over his arm and left the shop.
"Lily is going to love you," he said, giving her a grin. She tilted her head to one side as his smile widened, catching a beam of sun and sending his eyes alight.
Sun.
She'd seen the sun before, of course; she'd seen its rays stream through the shop's windows, illuminating her bed of straw, felt it's warmth in the morning, but —
Never had she seen it like this, so bright.
"Oh, I almost forgot," the boy said suddenly, stopping in his tracks. "I'm James." His face was serious, imploring, as he spoke, shaking one of her paws before a smile broke out across his features once more.
James.
The messy-haired boy had a name, now, and she supposed Lily was someone else, someone he knew.
That guess was confirmed as, a beat later, he said, "I think I'll just let Lily name you."
Soon enough, then, she would have a name.
The thought was perplexing indeed, and she pondered it for a bit, wondering what it would be like to have a name.
Something to truly distinguish her, something that she could call her own.
She examined James as he continued his lively walk, still grinning in the sunshine.
The brightness of it, admittedly, was now far too overwhelming for her to bear, and so the cat let her eyes flutter shut.
She heard James say something of it, but could not make out the words before she dozed off.
The first thing the cat noticed was warmth.
It was stifling, so much so she could hardly breathe.
Perhaps it had all been a pretense.
Perhaps she was still in her enclosure and the messy-haired boy, James, had been nothing but a figment of her own far-too-hopeful imagination.
But this certainly didn't feel like the shop.
It was dark and confined, save for a small, sloppily-cut hole near the top that allowed for the barest hint of light to peer through.
And it was shaking slightly, at a steady sort of beat reminiscent of footsteps.
"James, what's this?" a voice, soft and melodious, said suddenly.
"Happy Birthday!" was the reply, as the cat felt herself nearly drop before being caught once more.
"You really didn't have to get me anything," it was the first voice once more, sounding a bit bashful.
"Of course I did! Now hurry up and open it, I don't think she —" James faltered, clearing his throat before amending. "I just think you should open it."
And then the cat was no longer confined but greeted by golden light illuminating a breathless face, framed by a halo of dark red hair and stunning green eyes.
"James!"
The cat felt herself swept up into the arms of the girl as she spun back towards James, both of them beaming.
"Surprise, Lily," James said, offering a mischievous wink.
Lily. So this girl was the famed Lily.
"She's wonderful," Lily said now, peering down at the cat. "What have you named her?"
"I thought I'd let you pick," James replied.
Lily thought for a moment. Her gaze was intelligent, intense, as she took in the cat's orange-spotted coat. "What about Ambrosia?"
James made a face. "Lily, she's a cat. That makes her sound like some . . . professor or something."
"I think it's very dignified," Lily replied. "And she likes it too, don't you?"
The cat wasn't sure. Of course, Ambrosia was a nice enough name, and she thought she liked it, but she really didn't know. It wasn't like she had any other names to compare it to, either.
"Fine, fine," James relented. "But I'm calling her Ami."
Lily heaved out a sigh, shaking her head. "Of course you are," she replied, rolling her eyes as she turned away.
Ambrosia. Ami. The cat purred, deciding that she did like it. For now she was not simply the cat but Ambrosia.
She liked that thought even more than the name itself.
Ambrosia quickly became a silent commentator to the life of James and Lily. The former would confide in her and she would listen, trying to make sense of it, while the latter would offer her smiles and treats and, sometimes, even sing to her in a soft, lilting tone.
The months passed by in a blink, days spent lazily watching the sun journey across the sky would all blend together, until Ambrosia lost track of how long it had been.
But soon enough they had grown older, and she had moved from her home in Lily's room to a small, cozy cottage where James and Lily kissed and whispered secrets to each other as they settled in, turning it from a rather dull house into a vibrant home.
Ambrosia settled in as well, finding a warm spot near the window on a daybed where she curled up and spent her days watching the sun once more.
The other boy came sometime later.
He was small, smaller than any person Ambrosia had ever seen, with James' messy dark hair and Lily's bright emerald eyes.
The first time Ambrosia saw him, he'd crawled over to her, tugging at her ear and laughing as she recoiled slightly, trying to make sense of this boy.
"Ami, this is Harry," James told her sometime later.
Harry.
He looked at her and waved.
Ambrosia offered a small mewl in reply.
Ambrosia was waiting for the sun to rise.
This night had felt far, far too long.
She was tucked away from the window now, into a small alcove under the stairs, having been seized by some inexplicable urge to stay hidden tonight.
Her ears were perked, her nose catching an unfamiliar, musky scent.
A chill ran its way through her, prompting her to shiver slightly — until the door burst open and she went rigid.
A man, this one tall and gaunt and draped in black, swept into the house.
James was there first, yelling something frantically. His voice, usually so light and jovial, was shrill with desperation.
There was a flash of green light, a far more gruesome shade than the emerald of Lily and Harry's eyes that Ambrosia was so familiar with.
James toppled to the floor, slumped over and unmoving.
The dismal, dark man barely spared him a glance before continuing on his way.
The next thing Ambrosia heard was Lily. Crying out.
She didn't know why. They were upstairs now, and though Ambrosia wanted to follow, she didn't dare move.
There was another beam of sickly green light.
Lily's screams fell silent.
Harry.
Ambrosia closed her eyes.
She didn't know what was to come next.
She didn't want to.
When sleep swept over her, as heavy and bleak as the cloaked man, she let it consume her.
Ambrosia awoke to the wreckage. Her safe haven under the stairs was barely intact, the beautiful home she'd watched James and Lily create crumbled to debris.
James and Lily.
She did not see them, did not hear them.
And Harry —
She didn't dare think about what had become of Harry.
As she peered out from her alcove, tentatively stepping over the ruin, she could hear something very, very faint.
An engine of some sort, she decided, and this was proved correct as, in the distance of the sky, she saw a dark vehicle speeding away.
She just had to hope that Harry was there, that he would be alright.
Ambrosia felt something cold and numbing take over her.
James and Lily were gone.
Harry was, too, it seemed.
Her home and those bright eyes and warm smiles — obliterated.
She stepped outside, into the light.
The sun was far too bright.
a/n: written for the quidditch league fanfiction competition, round four (word count: 1557)
(write from a pet's perspective about mistreatment or abandonment (of pets or people) - i chose to write about the unwilling abandonment of the potter's cat)
optional prompts:
(phrase) under the stairs
(plot point) receiving a pet as a gift
(song) there is no home like the one i've got from the bolt soundtrack
thank you to krissy and shay for betaing!