~Written for the QLFC, Season 5, Round 13~

Position: Seeker

Position Prompt: Chessboard: Write about an event taking place on a battlefield.

The chess piece MUST be used somewhere in your story, as either an object or word.

Title: Silent Warfare

Word Count: ~1300

Beta(s): CUtopia, silently-at-night, RawMateriel

Chapter 14: Silent Warfare

The corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were channels of darkness after hours. The portraits slumbered, the walls groaned, and the whisper of wind breathed from an untouchable source sighed in nearly silent breaths.

But all was not still. All was not wholly silent.

Slinking through the corridors on feather light feet, He paused at a corner. He could feel it, could hear it – the intruder into what was His. It had no right to be in His castle. He would tolerate the presence of others – those of fur and feathers, those with the leathery skin that were Not Good To Eat – but this intruder.

This was wrong. It was bad. And He wanted it out.

Peering around the corner, He strained his ears for a hint of that telling sound. The barest of squeaks, the scuffle of a runner beneath feet, the scamper of an intruder that knew it was unwelcomed. A pause. A long, long pause. And then…

Nothing.

Crookshanks slipped around the corner and slunk along the corridor on his silent feet. He could be quiet. The castle knew Him, respected Him, understood that He was a protector of sorts to the creatures and intruders that Shouldn't Be Here. The magical ones didn't know. They didn't understand, couldn't sense it, but He –

Crookshanks knew. He knew all too well. He'd known from the very moment he'd laid eyes on the stain of a creature. Filthy, pitiful, stinking…

Another corner, and another pause. He waited. He sniffed. He twitched his ears and peered with narrowed eyes into the darkness. It was not so impregnable to his own eyes, and not only because He was Cat. He was better than Cat. His girl, his silly, wonderful girl – she barely knew. He was special, and He would protect his silly girl. She didn't know.

A corner.

A stairwell.

And then…

It started as a squeak. The barest whisper on the edges of His hearing, barely discernible, but He knew. Crookshanks paused, foot raised, ears pricked. He paused, and that foot slowly lowered, barely brushing the ground upon which He stood.

Another squeak.

Another whisper.

A hint of scent, of flavour on the air. And then –

He dove for the corner. In a flurry, a scramble of feet and the launching propulsion that not even Cat could accomplish, He threw himself around the corner and leapt upon the smell. Upon the contamination. Upon the intruder of what was His castle.

The rat was big. It was ugly, smelly, filthy and wrong. Crookshanks knew this, had always known this. And that rat, that creature –

It twisted beneath His paws. It writhed and roiled, slick and wily, and He sunk his claws in. There was a scramble. There was a roll, and He was tossed to the ground, was snapped, was slashed, was cursed in a violent tirade of indignant squeaks that were not quiet. They weren't silent. The corridor rang with it. It seethed with the fury of the intruder, of its wrongness.

Crookshanks slashed. He swiped. He struck the creature, claws bared, and felt fur give beneath his touch. He launched himself forwards, lunged –

And crashed into the wall rather than warm flesh. The wily creature evaded. It twisted like the snake that it was, the permeating stink invading His castle, and it dodged. Faster than it should have done, faster than its bulk that wasn't just Rat but was something more, it darted into the shadows of the corridor. In seconds, the scuttle of its escape was smothered by darkness.

Crookshanks hissed. He bared his teeth in frustration and cursed the evil, sickening stench of the creature that so eluded him. Then, with a grumble of fury only further enraged, He tore through the sleeping corridors of His castle and gave chase.

The battle was not won by flight. He would show the intruder that much.

"How many years has it been that you've played this and you still lose every time?"

Hermione glanced up from her book towards where her boys played. They should have been studying, and by all rights she should have made them, but instead, the familiar, scarred spread of Ron's chessboard was propped between them.

Harry shrugged expansively as he dutifully helped his shattered chess pieces pick themselves back up from their discard and reassemble as though they hadn't just been blasted into pieces by one another. It was a terribly violent game, in Hermione's opinion. She wasn't supportive of violence without just cause, and even if it was just game pieces, it didn't feel justified.

"I guess I'm just not strategically minded?" Harry said, more like a question than an explanation.

Ron shook his head mournfully, nudging his own pieces back to their squares. "No one should really be this bad, Harry."

"Well, apparently I am."

"You're smart, though, so I don't get it."

Hermione sniffed, momentarily closing her book. "I don't think it necessarily has anything to do with smarts."

Both Ron and Harry glanced towards her at her words. Harry raised an eyebrow as though confused. Ron blinked blankly, then nodded knowingly. Only a second later, however, he was frowning. "Oi, are you calling me dumb?"

Hermione sighed. Honestly, he's just so… "No, Ronald, I'm not calling you dumb."

"Really?" Ron straightened the last of his pieces as he twisted more fully towards her. "'Cause it kind of sounded like –"

Just what it sounded like, Hermione would never know. In a surprising burst of squeaks and flailing limbs, hairless tail striking the air like a propellor, the distinctive form of an overlarge rat threw himself onto Ron's shoulder. Ron flinched, but that flinch held nothing on the full-body stagger that he somehow managed even when seated as a beast of ginger hair crashed into him a split second later.

Ron shrieked.

Harry exclaimed and scrambled backwards.

The chessboard scattered, indignantly wailing pieces flung amok.

And Hermione could only stare. Stupefied, she bore witness to a frankly vicious wrestling match between a similarly shrieking, wailing, and writhing rat and her own cat. She heard Crookshanks squawk, heard a hiss and a snarl. Another squeak, a tumble of ginger fur and twisting limbs, and then –

They were gone. So fast it was almost as though they had Apparated, Scabbers and Crookshanks fled the room. Hermione only caught a glimpse of orange disappearing into the third year boys' dormitory as indication of Crookshanks' passage. And then – nothing. Silence.

For a beat, Hermione stared at where her cat had disappeared. She barely breathed into the lull that had fallen between herself and the boys. Then, slowly, slowly, she turned towards them both.

Ron was staring, wide-eyed. Harry was blinking in confusion as though he'd been struck over the head. And for whatever reason, Hermione felt the barest touch of… what? Satisfaction? That shouldn't be right.

"Well?" Ron said, abruptly finding his tongue.

"Well…" Hermione began. Then she sighed as a sudden flush rose in Ron's cheeks. "Alright, Ron. I'll be the one to go and get him. Again."

"Again? You act like this is a bad thing that you have to go and stop your ruddy beast? He's attacking Scabbers, and he should bloody well be…"

Hermione ignored Ron after that. Placing her book firmly in her seat, she skirted the couch to trot up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. It was always the same, but that was how cats and rats were supposed to be, wasn't it? That kind of violence…

Hermione didn't necessarily approve, and she would rescue Scabbers, but at least it was explainable. Right?