A/N: I first wrote this in 2007, then edited it substantially in 2009.
Moonlit Discovery
Crookshanks cocked his head to the side and stared at the intruder.
This was no ordinary dog, the cat had known for some time now. There was something mysterious about him, especially his size. The dog calmly made his way over to the strange, fierce tree quite a distance away. He was heading toward that—that thing that lurked in the distance. Crookshanks had never seen any animal approach that tree. Even the most ferocious birds avoided flying over it.
Yet here was this dog, heading toward the at a fast pace. Crookshanks, not knowing how to react, shrunk to the shadows before deciding against it. Deciding quickly, he leapt forward.
Running just ahead of the black dog, Crookshanks looked at him through his peripheral vision. The dog merely cocked his head, calmly observing the cat. He always did, and Crookshanks stared back, eyes level.
Crookshanks hissed and bounded forward on light paws, wondering if he should growl. The black dog looked back at him, an inexplicable knowing glint in his eye.
Then the black dog came to an abrupt but easy halt. Crookshanks stopped and turned around slowly, slitting his eyes and preparing to leap. The dog, ignoring his antics, walked over to him and pushed down onto his nose. The cat was about to give a start, but—for some reason or other—instead he found his eyes drawn to those of the black dog. Quite quite in contrast, the dog's eyes were a strange, pale color,, deep and strong. Mischief, regret, bravery, and—strangely enough— urgency emanated from within. The two animals were still for a while, Crookshanks transfixed by the dog's proud eyes. The dog promptly lifted his nose from Crookshanks's and fled once more toward the Whomping Willow.
Crookshanks stood there, watching him. Crookshanks knew this was the night, the night when he would finally be able to communicate with the black dog. To do that he had to act fast instead of darting back to Hogwarts as
Crookshanks stared after him for a moment, eyes slitting again, then gave chase. And what a chase it was no matter how hard Crookshanks ran after the black dog,, who continued to run on and on and on….
And through it all Crookshanks felt peculiar—something like curiosity, Well, he couldn't explain it, but it was there, and he felt as though it were trying to tell him something.
One thing Crookshanks did, know, though, was that the feeling filled him with a burning desire to know the truth. It all came out to the same thing in the end: There was no turning back.
Eventually, the black dog skidded to a halt in front of the tree. Crookshanks went rigid; there was no way the dog would approach that thing. No animal would, what with all the thrashing and flailing. Yet here was the black dog, standing before the tree, tail swishing back and forth. He was looking calmly upwards, sniffing the air; Crookshanks continued to glare at him, but he took no notice.
The black dog lowered his snout and sat down on the ground, watching as a branch started to whistle through the air toward him with what sounded like a howl. Teeth bared, he darted underneath it. Then, with a burst of speed, he flashed like a stream of light till he was standing right before the tree. Bracing himself, the black dog sank to his padded feet avoiding the tree's rage avoiding he leapt forward, flinging a paw outward. The paw pressed hard onto a knobby bump of wood Crookshanks hadn't noticed and—
—the tree fell silent.
The black dog fell expertly to his paws and streaked around the tree. Crookshanks stood, watching him scuttling behind the scarily still tree. The cat with the squashed face eyed the Whomping Willow, wondering if he should follow him. Crookshanks suddenly darted forward, keeping himself close to the ground.
The black dog was lurking behind the tree when Crookshanks came to a halt He was disappearing down a hole, large enough for a human to pass through, at tree's base. Despite that, underbrush covered it almost completely; Crookshanks had to concentrate to see it.
Crookshanks walked over to the hole, head lowered and tail trailing on the ground. He stared deeply, wondering if he should leave for a short while before spontaneously jumping into it.
The black dog was waiting for him—or so Crookshanks thought when he saw him standing almost patiently in front of the entrance. The dog cocked his head to the side and gazed at Crookshanks before fleeing once more.
Crookshanks launched after him. A yowl tore from hima deep, ugly sound from deep within his throat. He was pleased to see the black dog's ear twitch.
Still the black dog bounded ahead, feet pounding on the pebble-strewn tunnel floor. The scattered pebbles were sharp enough to sting his paws, but Crookshanks ignored them and kept on running.
He pressed on, teeth bared in a snarl. Before long, the black dog slid to a halt. By now, they had reached the light at the end of the tunnel, which, as it turned out, was coming from a hole above them.
The black dog, having stopped, narrowed pale eyes as he gazed at the light filtering downward. He couldn't have been angry at the light, Crookshanks thought—maybe he was measuring the distance to see whether he could jump that high or not.
Finally, after a few moments of agony, the dog leapt upward, propelling himself upward into the light. But, just after his paws hit the hole, he shook his legs out and turned around to fix Crookshanks with a piercing gaze.
One bound later, he was gone.
Crookshanks ran underneath the hole and stared into it. He cocked his, readied himself, and leapt into the hole.
Crookshanks stuck out his paws, and his claws pierced the hole's rim. He lifted himself out of it, perking one ear. Crookshanks listed intently for the black dog, then looked around. He was standing in an abandoned—or, at least, not cleaned or used in a long while—dwelling; the place was so filthy that the dust that coated everything was an inch thick. The sticks of furniture—a bed, a few chairs, a table, a nightstand—were, ancient and seemed to have been cut apart with teeth and claws, as if a giant beast taken their anguish out on them. The bed's blanket, comforter and sheets were yellow instead of the white they'd been originally, which wasn't half as surprising as the fact that they were ripped, again by teeth and claw marks.
This in itself wasn't half as shocking as the fact that someone was lying on the bed, though. And not just anyone—it was the black dog, but not as a dog. He was human—human, but he was the dog, too. Crookshanks could tell—his curly thick hair was tangled and his pale eyes were the same shade of gray.
And then there was the way he rolled over on the bed,. It was strange—close to the bed and limited, somehow, as though he were used to moving on a smaller scale. This dog-man, thought Crookshanks, even moved like an animal.
Conscious yet not conscious of what he was doing, he walked toward the bed. leapt onto the bed and purred, aware of himself but not understanding why he'd done it. The dog-man's presence was calming, he supposed, but he wasn't satisfied—why had he done it, and why wasn't he jumping off the bed now that he was aware of it?
Crookshanks wondered if it were because he instinctively trusted the black dog.. That would explain a lot, but Crookshanks wasn't sure—he didn't feel comfortable, standing here in front of the dog-man. Wanting to know the truth, he lifted his lips to bare his teeth but sat down, showing he would be patient, as he looked into the dog-man's eyes.
The dog-man stared evenly back lazily leaning back on the bed and crossing his arms. stayed like that. Crookshanks wondered if he were testing him, stretch his patience to its limit.
It seemed like a long time has passed before something happened.
The dog-man, loosening his arms, reared onto his knees and fur started to sprout all over him—his face, his arms, his neck. But it didn't go all the way—a few seconds later, Crookshanks could still see his eyes, his nose, and his mouth.
This dog-man, Crookshanks knew, was not normal.. He didn't need to watch the dog-man change forms as easily smoothly as water flowing through a river. He didn't need to know that the dog-man wasn't normal by watching him—he just knew it. He'd known as much when he'd first seen the black dog, so many nights ago.
No, it wasn't any of that. It was the way the dog-man had just seemed—it was the way he walked, the way he held himself, the way he gently picked up Crookshanks and ran a light hand down his back.
Crookshanks purred, not no longer wondering about his actions. The dog-man was strangely gentle with Crookshanks, and that was enough by itself.
"You're a smart one," the dog-man said in his mistress's language.. "You knew who I really was when no one else did. And there are other things I'm sure you've guessed, right?"
Crookshanks lifted his head and gazed up, up past the dog-man's dark, tangled beard, his pale skin, the grim-streaked nose, the thin slash of a mouth, and into his eyes—his deep, experienced eyes. Those eyes were sad, Crookshanks saw—sad, but there was hope in them. The dog-man had sinned countless times, and others had sinned before him countless times. But, even after all that, he wanted to keep hoping. He'd seen and done countless cruel things, but he wanted to keep hoping.
There was always hope, Crookshanks thought.
"Yes, you've figured out many things," the dog-man murmured; it occurred to Crookshanks that this tone suited him, somehow. "Yes, you have even found out that Wormtail—that rat, Scabbers- isn't everything he seems to be." He smiled; his eyes looked less haunted, somehow. "He's a rat, all right—both physically and personality-wise. He's a selfish little coward. Not to mention a traitor.." His voice was vehement now. " Didn't deserve living happily with those kind, poor, money-scrimping Weasleys all these years."
Crookshanks purred again, tail burying himself into the dog-man's lap, trying to calm him down. "Yes, you were special." The dog-man looked fondly at Crookshanks, stroking his back. "I've yet to find another animal—a complete animal, that is—as intelligent as you are."
Crookshanks purred again. His eyes started to sweep back and forth—Crookshanks thought he was bored—before he pointed to the window. Through the later of grime, Crookshanks could see a crescent moon. "Look, Crookshanks, it's the moon." The man smiled slightly.
Crookshanks joined his moon-gazing. It fit what had happened tonight, somehow—the moon always helped uncover strange mysteries.
After all, there were no discoveries quite like the moonlit ones.