For years Lily Evans despised her pet. She had considered the rotten bugger a traitor of the worst sorts.
She couldn't count the number of times she had wished she had gotten a bloody owl. An owl would've done exactly what it was told. It would've listened when she told it to stay away from a certain bloke she couldn't stand. It wouldn't have continued to jump into his lap and purr contently regardless of her admonishments for such an action, and after having taken up residence in his lap, it most certainly wouldn't have stared at her like she was a nutter when she called it to her; instead it would've come ready and willing to do its job. Because owls, they actually serve a purpose. An owl wouldn't do absolutely nothing for you and demand everything it desired from you in return.
She hadn't bought an owl though. She had bought a cat-an entirely maddening cat that adored James Potter.
In her seventh year of Hogwarts, her opinion of her cat changed drastically. For all of those years she had failed to see the cat's purpose, but now she finally saw one. She was considerably glad, then, that she hadn't gotten an owl. Owls were rubbish anyway. After all, an owl would've done what it was told. It would've listened and stayed away from a certain bloke she once upon a time couldn't stand but now fancied. It wouldn't have continued to jump into his lap, providing her with the opportunity to go fetch it-and the excuse to talk to him. But an entirely maddening cat? It would do that.
So, she reckoned, it had been a good thing she hadn't given her cat a swift kick off of the astronomy tower as she had occasionally had the strong desire to do. Because now she and James were sitting in front of the fire, their backs leaning against one of the couches, with Pickles curled up between them-the cat serving yet another wonderful purpose. Their hands would occasionally brush against each other as they both petted the cat's thick fur.
After awhile James hesitantly raised his hand and began to run his fingers through her hair. Lily couldn't really blame Pickles anymore for all the times the cat had ignored her when she called. James had always pet the cat's fur when it jumped into his lap. If that had felt anywhere near as wonderful as his gentle stroking of her hair felt to her now, it would have been madness for the cat to have willingly left his lap. She'd been a nutter to even ask.
As she leaned in to press a chaste kiss against his lips, she couldn't help but think that her cat had had the right idea about things all along.