Crabbe and Goyle were in the hospital wing. We had just had Herbology with the Ravenclaws, and the two idiots had gotten on the bad side of a Venomous Tentacula. Herbology was never friendly to those two.
It was our free period. I had considered going to the library – potions work for Snape – but I saw Granger heading off with Weasley out of the corner of my eye, and decided that it just wasn't worth a confrontation without backup. I headed out to the grounds.
Hogwarts in February is bitterly cold, wet, and miserable, but today the rain and sleet had let up a bit. The earth was soggy, but it hadn't been churned to mud, and it was good to stretch my legs.
Then I saw the cat. It was prowling next to a tree by the lake, its head low, trying to avoid being seen. I walked slowly towards it, carefully. I had had a cat once, many years ago, and I knew how shy they could be. One has to be careful with cats; they are skittish, and devilishly sensitive to noise.
The cat spotted me, and turned to face me, its eyes wide, back arched, hair standing on end. I did not advance, but crouched slowly and extended my hand, trying to look non-threatening. I sat there, waiting for it to relax.
Perhaps the cat was lost, rather than wild; it came closer to me, slowly at first, and then with more confidence. It stopped when it was a few feet away from me, and I slowly reached my arm out towards it. It backed up, and then, tentatively, sniffed my hand. I stroked it with one finger, and then it began to purr. It rubbed against my legs, butted my knees, and generally expressed its pleasure at being around a human being.
It was a small thing, a calico, a female. Its bones were so fine and fragile, I thought it might break in two. Gently, I picked up the cat, and held it against my chest, feeling the warmth of its breath, I stroked it, gently. And then, ever so gently, I began to squeeze it closer. So thin, so fine – it did not struggle at first, and then, when it felt the breath start to go out of it, it could not fight, for I was too large and strong. It tried to thrash, but I held it too close, and its eyes were the only thing that were wild, huge with pain and fear.
And, slowly, I began to feel nauseous at what I was doing. I relaxed slightly, held it close to me, but gently, stroked it. It began to relax, its claws – I had not even noticed them – retracting out of my robes. I placed it down, and watched it run towards the lake again. When it was at the water's edge, it stopped, and stared at me, before darting into the bushes.
I looked after it, and then walked away, my stomach still churning at how close I had come to killing that fragility.