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Chapter 10-

A Prayer For Snape's Return ~

The cabinets did not seem to hearken to the Boy-Who-Lived, who actually could not detect anything in the cat's taciturn personality that he might glean assistance from. Severus Snape's kitchen was composed of several, hard-backed chairs and plain wooden storage functions that were engrossed with darker areas, or perhaps an infestation of organisms that Snape had brought home with him during a Hogwarts holiday- for potions. Harry stood aptly for a moment, rigidly maintaining his position. He did not particularly want to ask the cat what he would desire as a nourishing staple at this moment, when the animal was sitting so regally, and deathly quiet. Harry kept his eyes carefully averted from the sovereign black ones gleaming coldly out into the world of the dilapidated kitchen, prevaricating. He really wasn't welcome in this kitchen, it did not appear, after all. He examined his hands very closely for the next several minutes.

The potions master languidly swept across the counter-top, the sleek black streak dipping up and down in an undulating, snake-like trance. Harry discovered that his eyes were fixed upon its movements as steel would fall upon what was beneath it- it was an intensely bitter action because, while Snape approached, the vision obliterated his will to avoid the animal. Eerily swaying itself, back and forth, Professor Snape the black cat deliberately stole Harry's mind away. His resolve fell in two or three pieces, shattering silently about the darkened room.

Harry couldn't quite say that the cat was controlling him yet, but . . . his eyes roved downward at a sudden movement. The black cat was moving its paws reflexively. Perhaps Snape had a purpose in mind. The cat then stared at him haughtily.

He did not think that Snape could play his normal kingly role, for his capacities after all were somewhat limited in the furry body. And yet, Harry could not help but to think that regardless of who he was, Snape would play the part of the potions master anyway, and if there was something which he couldn't do as a cat, that, by magic or mysterious dark forces he would find a way. He was absolutely sure of it. Therefore, he found himself looking at the cat bitterly as he asked, with no small amount of apprehension,

"Er- what kind of cat food should I give you?" Professor Snape gazed at him with black eyes that glittered coldly. Harry wondered if perhaps a charm had been placed over the potions master so that his reserve for glaring would remain untampered with no matter what his circumstances might be. The cool fathomless tunnels that bored into him seemed to be spitting imaginary insults at Harry, and he couldn't help himself from placing a hand on one of the broken knobs to the cabinets. He wrenched it open with a jerk. The shadowy enclosure housed an array of sundry miscellaneous, and entirely useless items. Harry's heart sunk marginally as his eyes quickly scanned the store of ingredients, their glittering crystal tops gliding upward into the dark wooden enclosure. The fingers of his left hand drummed unconsciously against the frame of the small door, while the slimy articles from every imaginable potions walk of life stared back at him as they swam about within different-colored watery gels, mocking him. He closed the door over the unfortunate stock with a disappointed huff. He looked back at the potions-master-cat, caught for a moment by the frigid black eyes once again. The cat was dangerously calculating him. Harry readjusted the frame of his glasses.

"I'm not sure what you expect me to do," he murmured. "Besides, how am I going to know when you need to eat? You haven't developed any type of communication method with me or anything." Harry's anxiety somehow became inexplicably magnified at this point, for while the cat did not respond to his words, the gleaming in the ice-shattering eyes grew stronger. He could feel the hairs on his neck rising, one by one. Snape would surely murder him when he was in his adult form if Harry did not cater to his needs properly.

His mind began working furiously. He thought evenly on the many necessary acts of care that Hermione typically performed, when he watched her with her cat Crookshanks. The problem was, however, that he had not observed her often enough to know how to execute what she did. Harry therefore found that he was completely baffled by this situation, to say the least, but he figured that it may be sufficient for the present time, if he were to make a list of those various things that he would need while Snape was still a cat. So he sat down at the table, pointedly trying to ignore Snape's towering semblance; odd that the potions master had not lost his usual stance- his overall manner was so strikingly similar to his character, that Harry found it easy to disregard the fur . . . and, well . . . the paws. It was a little humorous to see whiskers upon his face, a small, wet black nose gleaming over the faint traces of his mouth, which curved outward into a smile. The cat hissed at him then, jolting Harry out from whatever trance had engaged him. To his horror, he realized that he had been smiling at the professor.

"Sorry," he muttered quickly, bowing his head over the table, and attempting to concentrate upon the interesting creations that the markings in the wood portrayed. He ran a smooth hand over the roughened bumps, desperately trying to force his mind upon the uninteresting task, jabbing a finger into a wood hole while his mind whirled. He fervently wished that he could write to Hermione, and simply ask her what he was supposed to do with Snape.

"I suppose that- you'll need a litter box," he said carefully, keeping his eyes averted from the cat. This was highly embarrassing for Harry. He would need to supervise Snape's- no. He wouldn't ever allow himself to think that. Harry shuddered.

In the meantime, Snape had jumped off of the counter with a light thud, and his scrawny body now swayed across the floor. Harry couldn't help but to chuckle lightly as his arched back portrayed a language that Snape probably did not desire to emanate. The tail flicked back and forth like the tail of a bird who had cheerfully decided to woo its little brown mate, because the tip was small, disconnected from the creature, and quite gay. This part of Snape was simply so unlikely, even with its cat-attachment, that Harry had to laugh. That turned out to be a mistake, though. Almost immediately upon the escape of the light noise, Snape swerved around, hissing and spitting furiously. The dark eyes glowered of their own accord, piercing into him such as small, fiery, mean sparks flying- from the tip of his wand. It was possible, of course, that Snape had retained his ability to perform magic. Harry held up his hands, guilelessly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I- didn't mean to laugh. You just look much more like a cat than my potions professor." Snape hissed again, and Harry inwardly groaned. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut? He wondered. He suddenly had a horrible sinking feeling, which told him that by the end of this year he would easily have completed over a hundred detentions in the potions master's office.

Harry followed Snape into the living room, trying to study the dingy clutter of the boxes from where items he'd shifted through unwittingly lay. A vision came to Harry's mind of those extracurricular muggle attractions that only a wizard such as Mr. Weasely would probably find interesting. He allowed his right hand to fall upon one of the yellowed flaps that enclosed an old radio which he could glimpse slightly, within the darkened crack. And, suddenly, Harry had an idea.

He watched carefully while Snape jumped onto one of the cluttered couches, tentatively waiting for the moment of an opportunity that he may never have again, for the entirety of his life. Snape curled up into a semi-crouching position that oddly, made the tip of his long tail more prominent. Harry did not think that Snape had meant to attempt a comfortable stance, because as a cat, the display would probably not cotton to his tastes. He walked over to the cat after Snape assumed his position, in a slow and unobtrusive manner. He sat down next to him, licking his lips nervously. He couldn't help his need to scan the room frequently for fascinating key hints which would reveal more about Snape's family life. Telling Ron and Hermione what he had learned would be the highlight of his year, and would make the best breakfast that he had ever had, for Ron's unparalleled mirth would be much better, in a lot of ways, than pumpkin juice. At that thought, anticipation coursed through his veins, enlivening all his senses. He sucked in a deep breath, and leaned back slightly into the cushions. It was now or never at this point.

"You know," he said, directing his words to the air about him, "I think that the only person in the wizarding world who enjoys the art of using muggle appliances is Ron's dad." He stopped and waited. Snape did not give him any indication that he was listening to him, but Harry, relishing this moment wholeheartedly, continued anyway. "In fact, he makes all kinds of things that he tries to replicate according to whatever these things are that catch his fancy- for instance, Ron said that he put a car together this year." Harry paused again, forcing himself to muffle his laughter. He thought that he spotted a tail flick, out of the corner of his eye, but he could not be certain. The more that he tired to stem his ideas, the more forcefully they pushed against his resilience, it would seem. Before Harry could stop himself, he blurted out the issue that had become lodged in his mind, the words tumbling out so quickly that he did not bother to check them, while all his thoughts rushed forth furiously, almost as if someone had charmed them. It was as though a light had been turned on, and he found himself scrambling for the switch. But it was too late.

"Why did you take me away from the Dursley's? Why did you love my mum, and why did you live with muggles?"

In abject horror, Harry suddenly realized what he had said. A cantankerous clanging shot throughout his system, coursing through him like an insipid poison that was freezing every single ventricle in his nervous composition into solid ice. The cat slowly turned to look at him. Its cold, mirthless eyes stared right through Harry's own, almost curiously for a moment, as though Snape was mentally documenting all of his questions. Then the eyes developed an eerie glow that to Harry, was foreign and unnatural on Snape's whisker-clad face, and, for some reason, it absolutely terrified him.

"S-sorry," he whispered, knowing, even as the words came, that they were emptied into a space that was carrying them deftly into another world.

The potions master continued to stare at him. Then, without a backward glance, he jumped off of the sofa and regally walked towards the front door. Harry quickly raced to open it. As soon as the sliver was wide enough to admit Snape, the potions master glided out into the evening shadows. Although Harry couldn't exactly say why it was, his heart dropped a couple of notches while he watched the black streak gain length across the grass, until it eventually disappeared between two thick, towering oak trees. He had a notion that the consequences of this wouldn't be desirable. He closed the door, before sinking to his knees- and he prayed.

Before long, the setting sun smoothed out into a haze of dark clouds that molded into an infectious great design, which blackened at the same time, making Harry feel as if the Earth's dragons had come upon Snape's house in order to sit in wait outside of the front door. He felt as though he were staring into another vision of humanity while the pink completely faded, leaving him sitting upon a hard-backed chair before a window that displayed nothing, save for the bleak setting of gray and black in an expanse so wide, that it seemed nearly endless; he was certain that it would stretch on forever if he were simply to set foot outside the door, and would carry him into an eternal land, where the dragons would bear down upon him, mercilessly driving hard nails into his skin in the form of fire shooting from nostrils so wide that they appeared to be staring at him, like two small ghouls that were throwing nails after him. Harry was suddenly inundated by a furious rain of fire and nails at the same time, but the more he struggled against the black cloud of madness, the more tangible it became, until the dragon, for some reason . . . vanished away into the night.

If Harry knew anything about the potions master, he understood that he would take points from students with an indordinate amount of glee if they were late to class. It did not seem fitting, somehow, to envision him coming to a class, or any other obligation late, because it would undoubtedly interfere with the example that he regularly honed with clean precision, while he glowered upon a classroom filled with students, swept down the hallways in order to deduct points from whoever was unlucky enough to cross him- Snape would not bear extracting from his enjoyment, Harry thought dubiously. After all, if he arrived in disarray, with a bag of luggage at his side that was infinitesimally allowing some of the clothing to escape from the side of it, ten minutes late to class, Harry for one would have found it hilarious. Admittedly, he could run behind without such obvious debilitating qualities, but he knew that Snape would not allow anyone to mock him. Of course, since he had no control over what others did while in his animagus form, Harry would perhaps be one of the few who had the ability to do so.

He had to admit that if the professor stayed outside of the house until the darkness completely swallowed him up that he would be worried. After all, Snape had already been outside for several hours, and he felt a twinge of unwelcome guilt at that fact. Deeply set aside, lay the slowly festering guilt that if he had not mocked him, Snape would still be inside his house, and that he would most likely be eating on a can of tuna, before curling up by the fireplace upon a warm quilt. Now, it was much more probable that Professor Dumbledore would return in order to discover how quiet the house was, and the reason for its solitude. Harry felt shame wash over him at that moment, unwittingly coursing through his system, nagging him in a manner that caused him to wish more than ever that he had not acted with rashness. Suddenly Harry stood up.

He would go and look for the potions master. He couldn't imagine why Snape would have gotten lost outside his own home, but as a cat it must be more difficult to navigate, and defending oneself might be problematic as well in the case of danger. Harry attempted to stem the flow of his thoughts as they sped down this pathway . . . he knew that there was really no reason to be worried. Hastily, he sought out a lantern from the cupboards within the kitchen, knowing that it was a nearly fruitless endeavor, however, unless Snape's ingredients had lighting qualities, and had been charmed specifically so that they would magically point out a lost person in addition to whatever else they functioned for in a bubbling cauldron. But the idea was ludicrous, of course, for Snape did not own anything save for typical potions ingredients, and muggle- then Harry knew where he should be looking. The living room! Yet, as he traveled back into the dingy clutter, a distant noise caught his attention. He cocked his head slightly. So faint that he could scarcely hear it, a distinct, scratching at the front door alerted him to the fact that he possibly had a visitor.

Harry raced to the door and flung it open without a second thought. Upon the door mat, a sodden black ball stared up at him with a glowering face and a unique gleam in its impossibly black eyes, completely soaked, and looking extremely . . . unhappy.