Catachresis – a Harry Potter fanfiction by Xavien R. Maxwell

All characters and subject matter appearing herein are the copyrighted © creations of J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros., and are borrowed for the purposes of this fanfiction. No money in any form was earned in its production.

catachresis (kat A kreh sis), n. A figure by which one word is wrongly put for another, or by which a word is wrested from its true significance.

Source: Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary, © 1996, 1998 MICRA, Inc.

Chapter 2: Not Quite the Runt of the Litter



The farmer led the woman into the barn, wincing as her two screaming kids started up their third fight in five minutes. "They're over here," he said dully, gesturing at the small wooden pen he'd built six weeks earlier.

He smiled when she bent over the pen and cooed, almost tasting the crisp fiver that would soon be lining his pockets. Ambling over, he said, "Cute, eh? They be me last two. Was seven of 'em, but they went like quicksilver, they did."

In the pen, the two tiny kittens mewed, little paws braced against the wood to bring them closer to the woman's face. She made little adoring sounds at them. "Oh, they're lovely lil' creatures, how will we choose?"

One of the children poked his head over the pen and wrinkled his nose. "They're too fluffy," he moaned. "I want our cat to be big and fierce, like a tiger. Can't we get a tiger, Mum? He'll kill all the rats in the cellar surely."

"Oh shut up," said his sister sourly, appearing next to him. "You're so stupid, you don't even know that tigers are wild. A tiger'd slash you to ribbons the moment you tried to pet it. A kitten'd be much nicer. Ooh, that gray one is so cute, Mum, can't we have that one?" she said, giving her mother a winning smile.

The woman shrugged. "Well, that's that decided, I suppose. We'll take it."

"Yer sure?" the farmer asked, looking at the two kittens. "The marmalade's rather fetching, as well. Got nice eyes. Not even gonna consider him?"

"She wants the gray one," the woman said again, shrugging. The farmer shrugged back and scooped the gray kitten from the pen, leaving the marmalade kitten alone to watch as they trooped out of the barn.

The kitten squeaked once, hopefully, but no one came back. In resignation, he dropped from the wall of the pen to sit dejectedly in the straw, gazing with soulful gray eyes at the now empty enclosure.

I'm alone.

This thought didn't settle well. Granted, the mother cat and six kittens he'd spent the last several weeks with hadn't exactly been stimulating company, but at least they'd been there. Now that they'd all gone, the world suddenly seemed like a very big place. And a very silent one.

The barn door opened again, and the farmer stepped back inside, trudging over to the pen to give the kitten a sympathetic look. "Well, looks like yer the last, eh?"

The kitten mewled pitifully. Maybe…

"Well, it hardly seems kind ta leave ye out here all alone in the dark. What say I make ye a basket in the house tonight?"

Yes!

He felt like dancing as the farmer picked him up and carried him off toward the farm house. No more cold barn, no more prickly straw… I could sing!

Instead, though, he purred, and was rewarded with a scritch behind the ears. With a chuckle, the farmer went into the house and dropped him with a plop onto the carpet. "Now, mind that ye don't tear anything up, or the misses'll have me head," the farmer warned, shaking a disapproving finger at him before walking off.

He had the whole house to himself! Gaily, he gave a little jump of excitement and scampered into what appeared to be the sitting room. Immediately he laid eyes on a basket of yarn. Ooh, that's that yarn that the mother cat was talking about, he thought, and bounded into the basket.

Now, if I hit it with my hand like so, it's supposed to be loads of fun. Now, how…?

Experimentally, he batted one of the balls, and watched it roll away. He batted another one, and watched as that one unwound, as well. He stared at it awhile.

I don't get it, he finally decided, and hopped up onto the chair next to the basket. He landed on a small rectangular box that was sitting on the cushion, and when his paw hit it, the big box across the room lit up with a blaze of color and sound.

Hey, they've got one of those telly-whatzits. I wonder what's on? Examining the little rectangular box, which he figured was the remote control, he eventually found the channel button and was soon flipping from station to station. Hey, this looks interesting, he thought as he came across a show with a raven-haired woman clad in armor and swinging a huge sword.

The farmer walked back in, took one look at the kitten watching the telly, and blinked. "I mus' be gettin' barmy in me old age," the farmer said wearily. "C'mon, off ye go!"

The kitten just barely avoided the farmer's hand as it swatted him off the chair. "Hey, I was watching that!" he snarled in aggravation, glaring as the farmer changed the channel.

The farmer stared at the kitten much longer this time. "Did you just talk? Naw… naw, I mus' be hearin' things. Maybe I need a pill or two," the farmer muttered, heading off to the kitchen.

The kitten paid no attention, lost in his own thoughts. Hmph. Can't even watch the telly-whatzit. All I wanted to do was get my mind off things, really. Gosh, it's quiet in here.

He sighed a little kitten sigh.

I'm still alone. I hate this. Where IS everybody? Where am I, for that matter?

Hopping up onto the windowsill, he gazed out into the blackness, at the quiet barnyard with its sleeping animals. Last thing I remember, he thought, is…

A flash of green light. A high-pitched scream. A baby's wail.

A cruel laugh.

It came to him all at once, and had him reeling. Oh my god, Lily! Harry! Get out, he's coming, he's… he's…

He's come and gone, he realized with sudden clarity. I'm dead.

I'm dead?

I don't feel dead. No, no, I can't be dead. I've been alive for… a good couple months, actually. That's as far back as I can remember at the moment. What happened before that?

He strained his brain, trying to recall, but all he came up with was a feeling of patience, of incandescence, of suspension. Was I dead then?

Yes. But I'm not now.

So I've come back then. Just as well; I wasn't finished the first time around. Well, now that that's settled, I just need to get off this windowsill and go find out what the hell has happened since I died…

But one of those thoughts struck him amiss. What on earth am I doing on a windowsill?

And then he caught his own reflection in the glass, and scared the farmer senseless yet again with his horrified scream.

I'm a cat I'm a cat I'm a cat I'm a cat I'm a CAT!!!

It was all there: the fluffy marmalade fur, the little pink nose, the whiskers, the paws, the tiny little claws. His eyes were still the same smoldering gray, and the fur on his head did still stick up a little, but other than that he was completely, one-hundred-and-one-percent felis domesticus.

Why in the HELL am I a cat?! What is this, some kind of sick joke?! He paced broodingly back and forth on the windowsill and was just about ready to give himself a vigorous tongue bath when he stopped himself. Whoa, instincts, hold up there.

Okay, c'mon, think, think, what to do, what to do… Dammit, I'm not supposed to be a cat! I'm supposed to be human! I'm supposed to be James Potter, black hair, gray eyes, six feet tall, not a cute little ball of fluff with a tail!

Hey, I do have a tail, don't I? That's pretty neat…

No. He flattened that train of thought instantly. Not neat. Not at all. In no way is being a cat a good thing.

Well, there is the night-vision thing. And the agility will come in handy, I'm sure. Compact, speedy. And no one would be the wiser. Damn, I'd be the perfect spy.

Maybe it isn't so bad after all. 'Course, it'd be nice if I had someone to talk to. Not that I could actually talk, but still…

James sighed in resignation and looked around. His eyes fell upon the remote control still sitting in the chair. He looked from it to the television, to the kitchen where the farmer was still puttering around. Probably still looking for pills, he thought wryly. Must've really gotten a good scare when I…

No… no way. It's not possible… is it? Worth a try, I guess…

"Testing," he said, and about fell off the windowsill in shock. "Hello," he tried again. And again, and again, and before long he was laughing aloud in pure pleasure. "I can talk!" he cried to the room, "Do you hear me? I'm a talking cat!"

And then he immediately shut himself up. True, he felt good enough to butcher his way through the French National Anthem just because he could, but he didn't want to give the poor farmer a coronary. Smiling cattily, he curled up on the windowsill, looking out the window sleepily, and planning.

Tomorrow, I'll make my way back home. Somehow – I don't have my wand anymore, so I'll have to do things the hard way, but I'll do it. Tomorrow, though. Tonight, I'm going to sleep in this nice, warm house, and dream of Lily. I wonder what ever happened to her?

I hope she's alright.

Please let her be alright.