Author's note: I do not, of course, own the works of Harry Potter. I credit the inspiration for this particular writing exercise to a post theorizing that Crookshanks was once owned by the Potters. I haven't written anything unrelated to my day job in years, so this felt like a nice way to dip a toe back into recreational writing.
A Most Loyal Feline
The orange, squash-faced cat was hunting mice in the kitchen when the black-cloaked figure came. With a crash and crackle of splintering wood, the front door burst open, torn to pieces by a blasting curse that startled the feline into hiding behind the half-closed kitchen door. A hissed "Avada kedavra!" and a flash of bright green light were both followed by the unmistakable thump of a body hitting the floor. Footsteps came into the living room and the cat heard his mistress scream "James!" before the footsteps ran upstairs, further into the house.
The cat padded, bandy-legged, from the kitchen into the living room and sniffed at the fallen body of his mistress' mate. He was already dead, his body already beginning to cool in the late-October chill coming in from the broken front door. Lifting his nose from James Potter's body, the cat sniffed the air; the scent of the rat-human lingered nearby, tainted with the sour odors of fear and betrayal. Eyes glowing yellow in the low light, the cat spotted the rat in his human form, cowering and clearly waiting for something. He hissed, but turned away when his mistress screamed again. The cat streaked toward her voice, toward the baby's room.
"Stand aside, woman!" the black-clad figure hissed just as the cat entered the room. His mistress, tears on her face, blocked another flash of green light with her own body as she shouted, "Not Harry!" Lily Potter joined her husband in death.
Howling in anger, the cat launched himself at the intruder, clawing through fabric and into flesh. Yet the killer only laughed and kicked the feline away. Yowling in pain, the cat hit the far wall of the tiny bedroom and lay still.
"Finally," the cloaked man hissed. Removing the hood to reveal a head of black hair streaked with silver and a lined face that had once been handsome, Lord Voldemort took a look around the modestly-decorated room. A toy broom leaned against one wall, and an enchanted quidditch team mobile played a slow, impromptu game above the crib. He spared one last glance for Lilly Potter and shook his head. "Such a waste," he murmured regretfully.
Turning to the baby, Voldemort raised his wand one more time. The infant had stopped crying and was staring at him with emerald green eyes beneath a mop of messy black hair. "Avada kedavra!" the Dark Lord cried, and green light filled the room for a second time. But this time, something went wrong. Instead of killing the Potter child instantly, the sickly green light of the spell rebounded and struck him in the chest. A lightning bolt etched itself into the infant's forehead and began to bleed. With a howl, Voldemort's body exploded. Every window in the room exploded with him, and plaster fell from the ceiling and walls as the building began to shake. Black smoke with the hint of a face howled its anguish and streamed over the crib, through the infant's body, and out of a window. Harry Potter began to cry again as blood dripped from the wound on his forehead.
Flashing lights and yelling from outside the house signaled the beginning of a wizarding battle. The cat, regaining consciousness, smelled the man-dog and yowled piteously for help as he smelled the blood of his mistress' baby. Yet, buried under debris and unable to dig himself out, the cat was left behind when the man-dog entered the bedroom a scant few minutes later, grabbed the baby from the crib, and ran.
Hours later, after the fight was over, the cat managed to claw himself from underneath the rubble. Limping and favoring one side, the cat sniffed for any signs of life. He curled up next to his mistress for a moment, but she had already begun to grow cold and stiff in death. So, too, had her mate in the other room. But the baby – the cat knew that the baby wasn't dead. He could smell that the man-dog had carried the infant from their home.
Limping into the living room, the cat continued to sniff for traces of scent from Harry Potter. He followed the trail through the destroyed front door and to the narrow road that passed in front of the house. Yet there, the scent vanished and left only a trace of something smoky and acrid behind. There were more dead bodies in the village, but none of them were the man-dog, the rat, or any other human that the cat recognized.
Slowly, knowing that his mistress and her mate were both beyond help, the cat padded away from Godric's Hollow – likely for the last time. He followed first the scent of the man-dog, and when that disappeared, searched for the scent of the rat. Over days and then weeks, the cat followed scents both familiar and strange through wooded areas and muggle villages. Dirt and sharp burrs stuck to his long fur no matter how he groomed himself, until the cat's fur was matted and dirty. Eventually, he began to resemble nothing so much as an old shag carpet. But still, the cat continued: if he could not find his mistress' child, he would find the traitor.
Eight months after that fateful October night, the cat crept toward another wizarding village. Still searching for a familiar scent, he was taken by surprise when a soft voice whispered, "Petrificus totalus." Bound by magic and unable to so much as twitch his matted tail, the cat could only roll his eyes in fear as a middle-aged wizard approached.
"A-ha, I thought so," the older man whispered with a soft chuckle. "Half kneazle, and wandering around all by yourself, hm? Well, we'll get you cleaned up. You'll be a fine familiar for a young witch or wizard – even with that unfortunate face." It occurred to the cat to feel offended, but he was far too busy panicking as a whisper of "Wingardium leviosa" lifted him from the ground and into a small cage. The wizard shut the carrier and nodded with satisfaction, then disapparated with a loud crack.
When the cat could move again, he was in a much larger cage in a small room with strangely high ceilings. The room positively reeked of other animals to his sensitive nose: Owls, toads, and other cats filled the room, each in their own cages. The cat paced the width of his cage in frustration, yowling his displeasure. Someone had groomed him before casting finite incantatum, and while his skin and coat felt much better without the pull of matted fur, he grumbled at the indignity.
A dish of chopped meat had been placed in the corner of the cage, and the cat sniffed at it suspiciously; still, he was ravenous, and so a short while later the dish was licked clean and the cat was busily grooming himself.
At first, the cat kept watch over every witch and wizard that entered the animal-filled room, which he eventually learned was called The Magical Menagerie. Trapped, he eagerly searched for a familiar scent on anyone who passed close enough to his cage. In time, however, it became clear that no one – not the man-dog, not the werewolf, not even the rat – was going to find him here. And the cat descended into a quiet despair. Over the years, the children who passed through the Magical Menagerie ignored the enormous, bushy-furred orange cat; occasionally one would take an interest and be rewarded with a half-hearted hiss for their troubles.
More than twelve years later, a bushy-haired young girl and two boys entered the shop – and so did more than one familiar scent. As the girl looked at the owls, the cat stood from his bedding – he had long since been allowed out of that awful cage – and sniffed eagerly: there! There was the scent of his mistress' child! And nearly as importantly, there was the scent of the rat, the traitor. The cat circled the shop in agitation, trying to catch the eye of one of the three children.
And then he saw the rat, and twelve years of being trapped in the shop, of mourning the loss of his mistress, and being unable to have his vengeance filled him all at once. With a low growl, he pounced from his perch on a low beam, claws out to take the rat's head off, only to be blocked by the red-headed boy who yelped in pain as a claw grazed his scalp.
"Oh! What about that cat, there?" asked the bushy-haired girl, even as the boy grabbed his rat and, with the boy who smelled like the child, exited the shop quickly.
"Oh…he's been here a very long time. No one's ever wanted him," the shopkeeper responded. "He's half-kneazle - they're a handful, but a smarter pet you won't find. Smarter than owls, kneazles are." The cat, seeing his opportunity, began to wind around the legs of the girl, purring eagerly. This was his chance! If the girl took him with her, he could get to that rat – and to the child.
"Well," the girl prevaricated, "I had thought to buy an owl, but he's such a gorgeous thing, and he does seem to like me…" She paused a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. "How much are you asking for him?"
A few minutes later, a purring, fluffy orange half-kneazle, now named Crookshanks, left the Menagerie in the arms of one Hermione Granger. She smelled right, nearly the way his first mistress had: like books and quills. She smelled, faintly, of the child he had once guarded. And she was taking him to the rat.
With another purr, Crookshanks contemplated revenge.