The Red Reign Challenge: This Christmastime
The Twelfth Night : A Faerie Tale
by I Got Tired of Waiting

December 27 : All I Want for Christmas is Two Left Feet

The apple went well with his morning gruel, but the Owl greedily eyeing his bowl was not as welcome. Scanning the contents of the letter it had carried, he scowled. Mrs Peabody again. He hated working for Mrs Peabody, a most unpleasant witch given to lecturing him about his evil ways while he did the dirtiest, and in this season, coldest chores she could devise for one such as himself. He hesitated, looking at the bag of Galleons on the counter, but decided that, no matter how unpleasant she could be, it was probably best if he kept his gold for a leaner day. Scrawling a reply on the parchment, he sent the owl on its way and quickly finished his, by now, cold breakfast.

Muttering to himself about vindictive old biddies and chilblains, he trudged off to his bedchamber to get dressed. While pulling on his trousers, the cat inched into the room with something in its mouth, which it dropped at his feet. Picking up the small object, he found himself holding a pair of warm socks. He'd no more asked, "Where did this come from?" than the cat ran out into the other room. Following it, he discovered there was an open box under the tree filled with thick warm socks of all colours. Shaking his head at this reminder of Albus and his lurid footwear, he took the box into the bedchamber and quickly sorted them into his drawers, no longer questioning the magic tree and its mysterious bounty. As an afterthought, he pulled the old patched ones he'd set aside to be tossed and, stuffing the least holey in the now-empty box, he placed it back under the tree. Sniffing it warily, the cat mewed and, after much scratching and rearranging the contents, curled into its new bed.

That evening, he returned to the cottage depressed, cold, wet, and very hungry and was met at the door by the cat, who greeted him by laying a mouse at his feet. He chuckled, immeasurably cheered by the small gift. "After a day with that old bint, even a mouse looks good. My thanks for the offer, but I suggest you enjoy your bounty, for I've still nothing to feed you."

Thinking of the cold work he'd done, he doffed his threadbare cloak, hanging it carefully by the door, hoping it would dry before morn. The effort of making a meal almost more than he could bear, he settled for a simple, but filling meal of a bit of tinned beef atop some bread fried in egg. Looking at the small bit of egg remaining in the bottom of the bowl, he added a dollop of milk and set the mixture before the cat which, with no mouse to be seen, was licking its whiskers. "Don't get used to it," he admonished, pushing the bowl towards it. "I just don't want the egg to go to waste." He smiled as the cat all but jumped on the treat, licking the bowl clean in the time it took to put his plate on the table. As he tucked into his supper, he almost wished he had more to give it.

After cleaning his dishes, he settled wearily into his chair in front of the fire. As he opened his book, the cat leapt into his lap. Startled, he raised his hand to push it off when it settled in a tight cat-ball and started purring. Bemused, he hesitantly petted it, intrigued by the rough patches of fur and hard knobbly lines he could feel under it. As he ran his fingers through the long tawny and black strands, he realised the cat bore many scars, the length and thickness of its fur hiding that it didn't have a full coat. His long, sensitive fingers touched the skin underneath in places, finding some of it raw and almost scaly.

"So you've a harder life than one would think, have you?" he asked, his fingers combing the cat's fur until became soft and smooth. With each stroke, each touch, its purr deepened until its entire body vibrated with its pleasure. Slitted eyes, slowly opening and closing, watched him while sharp claws flexed and retracted against his robes in a rhythm he found soothing.

"You would have liked Albus, or should I say, Albus would have liked you." The cat butted his hand. "He had a habit of taking in strays, like me, I suppose, and those no one would ever look at twice and, in each of us, he found our potential, our talents." He scratched behind the cat's ears. "And he made us shine. Well, maybe not on the outside," he temporized, thinking of Hagrid and Argus, "but on the inside. He gave us purpose and pride." His hand rested on the cat's side, the purr rumbling against his skin. "He was my friend, and I miss him."

An odd kinship established between them, the cat licked his hand before jumping off his lap. Realising how tired he really was, he retired, strangely disappointed when the cat, with a long, low meow, slunk back under the tree.

TBC