This story is written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition

ROUND 4

Wimbourne Wasps - BEATER 2

Pet Me

Write about losing a pet (to death or otherwise).

Optional Prompts:

(action) running

(object) stick


I have to apologise beforehand: This is a real sob-fest. I cried a little while writing, it's quite emotional :D


War had been expensive. Hermione had never thought further than the end of the war, not wanting to divulge in distant dreams and wistful wishes of better times before reaching a point where that future was realistic. She had put all her money towards preparation – all that had remained after she'd sent her parents to Australia.

Now that the war was over, she was in desperate need of money. Gringotts was her hope to fund the search for her parents but despite her earnest request, the Goblins asked endless questions about her education (that she hadn't finished), her job (that she didn't have), her financial reserve assets (that were depleted) and her creditors in form of family and friends (that either were far away not knowing about her existence, or just as much in dire need of finances as her).

Harry had put all his inherited wealth into rebuilding Hogwarts. The Weasley's had enough children to feed, and Ron had to run his brothers' joke shop. No one had money for entertainment in a crisis.

The Ministry was struggling with a financial crisis after most of the wealthy Purebloods (meaning the Death Eaters) had been locked away in Azkaban. There was no reward for the heroics of war, no redemption for committed crimes. The Death Eaters' last vindictive strike against society before being locked behind prison bars for the next fifty years had been to hoard their money in anonymous and untouchable accounts far away in Swiss banks, practically freezing the economy in a state of shock.

Everyone survived from day to day now. Those who could afford it were charitable, provided basic needs and worked to get Hogwarts back to its original state. It was in ruin. It probably would have been easier to just build a new school, but people clung to the stable safety it had promised them in their childhood. They wished for their children live there, sheltered from the lingering trauma that still wandered the streets of wizarding London and the dread that haunted the houses of wizarding families.

Unable to take a loan, Hermione had lived on a dime a day and worked two jobs that paid miserably but were the only thing she could find – one in the war ridden wizarding world and the other in muggle London. She was intelligent, but for Muggles, she was without education, so all her intelligence wasn't worth a hill of beans. She wistfully looked up the storeys of Harrods' grand facade while running off her feet as a waitress in a little cafe across the street. Once, she had gone to London's most famous department store with her parents to marvel at the luxurious goods and pick chocolates with her dad for Mother's Day. Once, she had bought a tiny silver bell for Crookshanks' collar that rang so sweetly that the thought of it still made her smile a teary smile. Of course, Crookshanks hadn't been as fond of the noise and had miraculously gotten rid of it within a day, despite her charming it to his collar with an especially strong sticking charm.

Crookshanks was what was left of her family, and Hermione cried more than one night when she hadn't managed to buy his favorite cat food anymore. As if he noticed her desperation to save every Knut and Penny she earned, he went hunting more often than eating at home. The meadows of the Burrow supplied him with more mice than he could eat in a lifetime, and he assured her of his love by offering cuddles and purrs every night.

When Hermione had finally earned enough money to book a Portkey to the other end of the world and live there for some time, she had left her beloved furball behind at the Burrow. Ron had promised to take care of him, his kiss lingering a second longer than usual, well aware that it was the last one they would share for the next few months.

Australia was vast. Hermione was overwhelmed by the sheer endlessness of possibilities, and despite spending every night of the last dreadful year making plans and working on tracking spells that ventured too far into dark blood magic to ever let her friends know, everything had its limits. Even her. So much for 'greatest witch of her age'.

She lived in cheap hostels until her money ran out, just a few weeks after her arrival. She lived on the streets and begged until she went hungry for the third night in a row. She stole that night for the first time in her life. Even during the war, she had never even nicked a strawberry in the grocery store. Harry and Ron hadn't been above smuggling food under Harry's invisibility cloak the few times they had dared to enter little towns across the country, but Hermione had held onto the values her parents had taught her.

She had experienced a close encounter with the Australian Ministry of Magic when they had caught her confounding a Muggle to get a postcard and a post stamp to tell her friends that she was still well and searching. She had been granted an owl by the compassionate Ministry worker, Miranda, who had also offered Hermione a sleeping place in her guest room after listening to the witch's heartbreaking story. Hermione had thanked her politely and had quickly jotted down a vague note about her search, glossing over her failure to find her family and her failure to stay afloat. Her friends had problems of their own and would only try to plead for her to come home if they knew how bad she was doing. She couldn't give up. She needed to find her parents. With the help of Miranda, she was eventually able to track down her parents' address. She found herself standing in front of a terrace house with shuttered windows on a balmy summer's evening.

A sign on the porch offered the home for sale. Hermione sighed. Another dead end. Digging up her long-lost expression of a polite smile, she rang the neighbour's bell.

"What?" A middle aged woman with a baby on her hip answered the door. She took in Hermione's ragged appearance with one glance and immediately pushed the door a little further closed.

"Excuse me, I am looking for Monica and Wendell Wilkins. Do you know if they moved?"

"They did. To the cemetery. Had an accident last month."

Hermione stared at the woman.

"Anything else you need?" she asked impatiently, shifting her hips as the baby started to get nervous and twisted in her hold.

Hermione shook her head, and before she could even utter a thank you, the door was closed in her face.

A month ago. She was too late. All this time working and saving money, living on the streets for the last weeks, just to be confronted with an empty house. She went to the graveyard briefly. The graves were simple stone plates. No ornates, no obituary. Just the dates and the names they had left England with.

They were dead; there was nothing here for her to do now. It was time to go home. It was time to return to what was left of her family. Crookshanks must have missed her badly during those last weeks.

Hermione found no tears in her heart to cry for her parents. The war had drained her, and the time after the war had hardened her. She didn't want to leave them tears as fake as their names on the gravestone.

Hermione managed to contact Miranda – the nice Ministry worker who had helped her find the address – and, miraculously, there was a free slot on a Portkey back to London the very next day. Hermione was certain that the travel wasn't for free, but she didn't ask about that as Miranda showed her to the room where five other witches and wizards were already assembled around an ink-splattered pencil case.

It had been early morning when Hermione had left Australia, but London was already draped in the darkness of the night. She was thankful, for she was as tired as she'd been the day the war had ended. Somehow, the nausea from the Portkey travel wouldn't let up, and Hermione felt squeamish as she apparated to the Burrow.

Molly opened the door for her, already wearing a nightgown with a woolen cardigan on top. She didn't ask questions, just took one look at Hermione and pulled her in a brief but warm hug. She urged Hermione inside and heated some stew for her. The Burrow smelled like home, and the food was comforting.

"Eat up, dear," Molly said. "I'll go fetch Ron."

Hermione didn't even nod, just ate until her tummy ached. She didn't register the exact moment that Ron took a seat next to her. At one point, she just noted his comforting presence and reached out to squeeze his fingers, silently assuring him that she was alright. She must look a fright, not saying a single word, looking no one in the eye and eating like a mad woman. It was the first warm meal she'd had in some time, Hermione remembered belatedly.

Finally, she spoke. "How's Crookshanks?" She searched Ron's eyes. "Is he out hunting? I haven't seen him yet…"

Ron grasped her hand tighter. "He is- Hermione, I'm so sorry." He swallowed hard. Why were his eyes shining with unshed tears? "He died last week."

"What?" She choked, the stew rolling around in her stomach and threatening to make a reappearance.

"He was old, Hermione. He was getting tired of life, I guess."

"Last week?" she croaked.

"I- We didn't want to write you because we knew you would come back immediately. You worked so hard to finally find your parents, Hermione." She pulled her hand free. "I'm so sorry," he whispered, not meeting her eyes.

"How dare you?" she hissed, standing up so abruptly that her chair fell over.

"Hermione-" he trailed off, tried to reach out to her, but Hermione didn't want to hear his apologies. She turned and fled. Bolting out the front door, she ran into the night. The grass reached up to her hips, the ground below was uneven under her feet, and yet she didn't slow down, didn't care if she would fall.

She sprinted through puddles and eventually stumbled over a stick, falling to the ground hard. Her lungs burned as if dragon fire was eating them up, and her heart threatened to blast through her chest. She struggled to get up on her knees. Everything hurt. Her whole body ached with desperation and loneliness. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, as she wrapped her arms around herself, but her lungs unable to produce a single sound. Hermione closed her eyes so hard that it hurt.

Why? She was left behind by everyone now. No – she was the one who had left them behind. She had gone and fought a war; and after the war, she had been consumed by the next objective to undo all her sins and selfishly get back what she had abandoned. Forlorn tears gathered at her chin. She was the one who was left behind now. She hadn't been fast enough and would never catch up to her family again.

Then Ron was there and held her. Ron was still there, he wouldn't leave her. Hermione's strained muscles trembled as she clung to him, desperate to hold on to the only thing left for her.

"He died alone, didn't he?" she sobbed. "I abandoned him when he needed me."

Ron stroked her hair and rocked her gently. "He wasn't alone. We took care of him until the end."

She cried harder.

"It's not your fault, Hermione," he whispered in her hair. And then he repeated it again and again until her trembling eased, until she started to believe him.

When her throat relaxed and words managed to make it past her lips, she told him everything. Told him how she had nearly been mugged by rough thugs the one night she had slept in a dangerous spot under a bridge. She told him how she had stood at her parents' graves and hadn't even left flowers. Tears welled up anew as her troubled time in Australia finally caught up to her.

Ron held her, he cried with her, and he cried for her when her tears ran dry.


I've lost my cat some time ago and already wrote that pain "off my soul" as we Germans say. Therefore I had some trouble writing this story because it already has been written, albeit with a rather different plot. It's called Crooks and Cracks – you can find it in my profile.