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The halls are full of people. Their legs and feet, perpetually in motion, build a forest so dense and treacherous, even Crookshanks hesitates to walk it. But he did not befriend a dog-who-is-not-a-dog, walked icy nights, chased those who smelled of smoke and badness, and stepped over a battlefield because he is timid. He never had the sharpest claws, or the finest ears, or the prettiest face. His siblings were sweeter than him, prettier, quicker, even. Good at tilting their head just so, at meowing back at the two-legged in that way that made their faces all soft and their eyes big in return. They got picked, one by one, until only Crookshanks was left, but he never wavered. He knew his home would come to him, and he was not afraid to wait for it. He might not be the sweetest cat, not charming and good at manipulating like the others, but he has the strongest heart. So he stretches and leaps into the fray, darting to and fro to avoid the thundering footsteps.
“I can’t believe–” they call, running towards him, and he weaves.
“Is he really–” someone else gasps, and he dodges an errant boot.
“Potter did it! He really did–” someone else caws, and Crookshanks jumps on top of a stony two-legged who is always crouching here, frozen, and launches over the crowd. He lands in a calmer corridor. He doesn’t look back and bounds around the corner.
He has to find her.
Crookshanks has never been tenderhearted, but she is. He has waited for a long time because he knew it would be fine in the end, but she didn’t. He knew that the moment he laid eyes on her, fur wild and frizzy and eyes big. She’s a little fierce, that’s true, but she drips an awful lot. She frets, and she paces like she is caged even when the door is wide open. No matter how often he leads her to it, even dragging her, she will continue walking up and down, so he has learned to let her. Instead, he takes care of her from a distance. She needs someone to take care of her, and he hasn’t seen anyone do a better job than him.
She isn’t inside. The smells are all confused: loud and screaming, death and blood and bad-bad-bad and tears covering up the familiar smell of old and dust and rock, but he knows she isn’t there. He’d know if she were. So instead, he darts out of the large doors into the night.
The fresh air smells like flowers and blue night sky, and he gets distracted for a moment, sniffing it. Out here, the yelling and the footsteps aren’t as loud. His fur smooths out and he cleans a paw while he deliberates. The grass outside the big rock-house expands for a while in each direction. Where would she have gone?
His ears prick up before he even realises he’s heard her. Her voice is thready, like an ill kitten, but it is there. “Oh Merlin, oh Merlin–don’t hit your head, oh no, I can’t be giving you a concussion too–if you’re even alive, oh fuck–”
There she is: a small, dark figure coming out of the large tree. He bounds towards her, weaving past destruction, past two-legged and eight-legged stretching their limbs into the sky. They will not move again, he knows, but she is moving, and he only realises now that he wasn’t sure if she would be. The thought is inconceivable. She needs him. Where would he go without her there, needing him? He has waited half his life for his home, he isn’t letting her abandon him now.
She comes closer. There is a second shape with her. It is dark, and like smoke in the wind it sways to and fro. He freezes and hisses, but then the wind turns and he smells the thing. It smells like the dark man, the one who also hisses but also watches. Crookshanks can tell the difference between a good watcher and a bad watcher, and tell it easily, so he comes closer.
“Fuck, what do I do, what do I do, they think you’re a traitor, I’m not a healer but I can’t bring you to the hospital wing, oh Merlin–”
She is dripping again, and her hands are trembling around the stick. She is holding it with both hands so the man floats steadily, although his head lolls back and forth. She smells like fear, but Crookshanks knows what to do with fear. He meows and her head whips around.
“Crooks!” She hisses but he knows she is not angry because she is hissing. Sometimes, she just hisses because she cannot scream. “I was looking all over for you. Are you all right? Are you– are you hurt?”
Crookshanks meows again and stretches to show her that he is fine. Then he curls around her legs. The purr rises naturally in him. She smells of bad and smoke and blood, but it is all wrapped up in a scent of home. She is trembling and dripping in more than one colour and she is dragging the man with her stick like a mother would drag her kitten, but she is whole. His purr intensifies.
“I can’t pet you because I need to hold him steady but I’m so glad you’re okay, Crooks. I’m so glad.” The dripping gets worse and that means the shaking gets worse. The man jerks, and one of his strange paws gets stuck on a rock. She curses and lifts him up again.
“Shit, sorry Professor, I’m so sorry–”
“For Circe’s sake, Granger,” comes a mumbling so low and slurred, it might as well be a brook, or a gust of wind in the leaves. “Stop apologising and get moving. I’m not getting any younger here. Or any less dead.”
She jerks so badly that Crookshanks is afraid she will drop the stick, and the man with it. He butts her leg with his head and purrs as hard as he can. She breathes shakily, but she stops trembling quite so much. Crookshanks casts the man-who-watches a glance. You’re welcome.
“You’re awake!” She shrieks. “You’re– how are you feeling?”
“Like a snake just ripped out–” he wheezes and coughs weakly. “Ripped out my throat.”
Crookshanks butts the back of her legs again. She picks up speed. She really needs as much attention as a newborn kitten. She is so lucky she has him.
“Right! Sorry! You should probably stop talking now, Sir, I’ll get you– I’ll take care– I’ll fix– Do something. I’ll do something.”
“Reassuring.” The man-who-watches’s voice is weak. Crookshanks is all but running now to keep up with her large strides. On another day, he would ride her shoulder, but she needs him to herd her along now. He guides her away from the front entrance and into a corridor off to the side. He knows what they need. They need the coloured water, the one that smells so strange and comes in many of the glass baubles. They can’t go to the upstairs place– it’s crowded with people, and he knows the man-who-watches doesn’t like people. He likes dusk, and darkness, and to watch, so Crookshanks guides them down, down, into the bowels of stone.
The downstairs place is hidden, but Crookshanks has watched the man-who-watches open it. You need to tap some stones. He has it all memorised, he can get them in there. Still, she pauses in front of the stones.
“I don’t know how to get in here, Crooks,” she says, her voice all flat and dejected. She sounds like that sometimes when she does not understand what he is telling her. He does not blame her. There is somewhat of a language barrier. “Maybe Snape can–”
Crookshanks meows indignantly. He does not need the man-who-watches! He can fix her troubles all by himself. To prove it, he jumps up at the stones. It’s almost like chasing dust mites and he gets distracted for a moment (it is very fun!), but he manages to focus. There is a tingle, like the moment before a sneeze, and then there is a door where there was no door before.
“Huh. One would think I’d stop underestimating you.”
Crookshanks sniffs in agreement.
She carefully steps inside. Crookshanks nudges the door shut behind them and leads her to the dark room with the baubles. She is already murmuring to herself. She is very noisy, his home, but it’s all right for him. He likes to sleep while she is looking at her papers, muttering. It’s relaxing to know someone is there.
When they are inside, she waves the stick. A stone block shudders and groans and grows, bumping into Crookshanks’ behind. He meows in indignation, but she is too lost in her task to apologise. Instead of blaming her, he takes the high road. This is why he is in charge– he is aware of the bigger picture when she loses her perspective. So he waits until she has settled the man-who-watches onto the stone and sits down by his head. From here, he can tell if he stops breathing, he can see her flit around the room like a furry butterfly, and he’ll know if someone comes down the stairs. He yawns, stretches, and begins to clean his face. Might as well keep busy while he waits.
Rumbling wakes Crookshanks. At first, he doesn’t realise where he is. It smells like darkness, like earth and the outside and something dusty and papery that home also smells like. He burrows his nose deeper in it and finds coarse fabric. He slides open one eye, the other being apparently covered by his paw.
“Merlin, Granger, take a breath,” the thing under him rumbles again. “You haven’t killed me yet. You will be fine. Just take one step after the other.”
“And now you have to coach me through saving your life! What am I doing?”
She sounds so distressed that Crookshanks wants to leap up and comfort her, but something makes him wait. Maybe it’s the rumbling, which he now realises belongs to the man-who-watches. He must have fallen asleep on him. Maybe it’s how she looks at him – not at Crookshanks, but at his fleshy pillow. Like she is waiting for him to say something because it means something. It is a disconcerting look, and strangely comforting at the same time.
“You are doing it. You are saving my life. And now do me a favour and don’t spill that stomach acid. Apart from being quite expensive, it would undo all your hard work if so much as one drop got on me.”
She hastily turns away. Crookshanks lets his eyes slide shut again and just listens to the rumbling go back and forth. It reminds him of a thunderstorm. Of being safe with his home while it grumbles and thunders outside.
“How do you feel?” She asks. Clinking of glass.
“Like I was ripped apart and stitched back together.” A sound of breath from her. “Stitched back together not terribly. Truly, do I need to hold your hand now? I think the mere fact that I’m here to fight with you gives credit to you, you insufferable woman.”
A clink. A pause. “You could hold my hand.”
Nothing for a bit. Crookshanks almost slips back into sleep. Then the chest rumbles. “Pardon?”
“Nothing. Adrenaline. Blame it on that. I’ll give you another bloodreplenisher and something for the pain. Is there anything I am missing?”
Something under Crookshanks moves. Not a lot, but enough to disturb him. He cracks open an eye again and watches the man-who-watches twitch his hand. Once, twice. Nothing more happens. She is standing beside them, looking down at them.
“He doesn’t like many people, you know.” She says. “Haven’t really seen him sleep on many. On anyone, really.”
“His furry arse is in my mouth.”
“You really have little sense for romance, do you?”
“Is there romance to be aware of? In this room?”
There is a change in the air. Her heartbeat is picking up – racing now. She is about to tremble again, Crookshanks knows. Taking it as his cue, he flips onto his back with a rumbling meow, baring his throat to her. It takes her a moment. He meows again. Then a hand comes to scratch his chin. It’s not hers, but her heartbeat calms down anyway, so he allows it to happen.
If Crookshanks thought they would leave the dark place anytime soon, he was wrong. They spend the next few hours there, the man-who-watches on the stone, and her in a corner. After a while, Crookshanks leaves the man, who is breathing deeply, to sit in her lap. Her hand descends on his fur and pets him exactly right. The pur comes easily, and it distracts her.
“What am I doing, Crooks,” she whispers eventually. “What am I doing?”
He has no answer. Instead, he butts her hand where it has frozen in the air to show her what she could be doing and for a while, that seems to help.
In the morning, he receives some canned tuna.
“It’s all I could scrounge up for you, I’m sorry,” she says. If he weren’t so hungry, he might stage a protest. The tuna is tolerable. She herself gets something that smells dry and yeasty and sits down cross-legged at the foot of the long stone. The man-who-watches is still asleep, but he is breathing evenly, if a bit slow. Then again, the tall, two-legged ones all breathe very slowly.
For a moment, the only sounds in the cavernous room are their chewing and swallowing, but then she starts talking.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Crooks,” she says to her food. Crookshanks attempts to fish a piece of tuna out from the rest that looks fresher and juicier and accidentally drops it on the floor. “I should be out there with the others. Harry and Ron. Ron especially. He was so understanding when I told him I had to go, when I couldn’t kiss him back… he grew so much, you know? He’s so mature now. I should want to be out there with him. Why don’t I want to be out there with him?”
Crookshanks gives up and just nibbles it straight up from the floor. It is tastier and juicer than the other bits. He goes back to the can to hunt for more.
“It’s not that I don’t love him,” she says, words a little muffled through her food. “I do, of course I love him. I love Harry too. I love them both. And the Weasleys. They were so kind to me, how could I not love them? And with Ron… there was a time when I thought… I really thought, you know? I did. But … things change, right? That’s all right, isn’t it? He has Viktor now, too, so it worked out. Right?”
The next bit of tuna refuses to be picked up and gets stuck in a corner of the can. Crookshanks meows at it angrily. It refuses to be impressed. He glowers.
“Right?!” she says, sounding more confident. “You’re right, it is all right. And it’s entirely understandable to feel alienated right now. And with Harry off with Ginny and Draco doing … whatever Ginny and Draco and Harry do, and Ron with his family, it’s not like anyone is missing me, after all. Parvati might… wonder, maybe. But she’s busy, too, and it’s not like we broke up yesterday. I am entirely free to do whatever I like to do, and if what I like doing is to sit in a musty dungeon and watch Severus Snape sleep, that is a normal and healthy thing to do at the end of a war.”
The piece of tuna gets stuck on his paw. Finally, he fishes it out, and chomps down on it triumphantly. It’s sweet and juicy. He is very proud of himself.
“If your aim is to watch me sleep,” the man-who-watches rumbles. “I recommend you actually let me sleep.”
She yelps and Crookshanks head whirls around to check if she is hurt. She does not seem hurt, but the flat thing she keeps her food in that is balanced on her knee wobbles briefly before she catches it. Still, he sits back on his haunches and cleans his face, watching them carefully.
“I am so sorry! Did I wake you?? Of course I did, oh Merlin, how much of that did you hear?”
The man-who-watches groans and attempts to raise himself up on his elbows. “Help me up.”
“I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea!”
He freezes in his attempts and looks at her very intensely. “Granger. Remind me, who of us is the highly trained potions master who taught you first aid, and who is the student?”
“And who of us saved the other’s life?”
“Do you really want to start playing that game with me?”
“Why, are you scared?”
The man-who-watches hisses. “Granger.”
She is bristling. Crookshanks likes watching that happen. It reminds him of his siblings getting into fights, fur up and ears back. “Sir.”
“Help me up, for Merlin’s sake. And call me by my name.”
She scrambles up from her seat and puts her hands on him, carefully manoeuvring him to and fro. “Which one?”
He makes a pained noise. Crookshanks abandons his cleaning to stand next to them and purr. Sometimes, when she is dripping, that helps. Maybe it also helps the dark man.
“My last name. Or do you think we are on a first name basis already?”
“I did stitch you back together. Literally. If we are not on a first name basis, who is?”
There is a pause. Only Crookshanks’ purring fills the room. It echoes strangely from the stone, and he sort of likes it. It makes him feel bigger than he is.
“Granger.” He sounds smaller suddenly. His words don’t rumble quite as much. “Don’t curse me if I’m wrong, but what is going on here? I feel like there is something going on here.”
She all but jumps up from the stone and starts puttering about the room. “What do you mean going on? I saved your life, I helped you sit up– idiotic idea that it is, but all right. Nothing else is going on here.”
The man-who-watches has very dark eyes. Crookshanks knows they’re not the same colour as the night sky. They’re more like very, very dark, wet tree-bark. Soil, perhaps, when shadow falls across it. Like when he is home and the lights go out and he can only barely make out her hair, soft and fluffy and in need of being cleaned, and he settles close to her head that he can do that for her, since she doesn’t do it herself. Then her hair is the colour of his eyes now, and of a similar temperature. Warm.
“Nothing else,” he echoes, and the rumble is back. “I see.”
She grows very red. That took a while for Crookshanks to understand – why she grows red. None of his siblings ever did, but he knows now that sometimes, her heart beats a lot and it makes her red. And sometimes, it makes her white. But red is always better. Red means she is pleased, or ready to fight. White means she needs someone to sit in her lap and purr until she is ready again to face the rest of the world – the world who is not Crookshanks. He prefers red. This seems to be a good red.
“You should have another dose of painkillers. And then maybe, if you want, we can clean you up a little? You’ve got blood… er… everywhere, really.”
“I would appreciate a bath. I flake when I move.”
They get up and shuffle around. It seems very uncontrolled, and there are sounds of pain now and again, so Crookshanks keeps a safe distance. He watches them go into another room and debates whether they truly need him there (another nap is calling his name) when he hears the sound of rushing water. He is running before he has decided to, and he skids around the corner. He calls for her desperately, but the scent and sound of water are everywhere.
“Oh shi– Sorry, can you sit here for a moment? He panics when I bathe–” Her voice comes from off the side, and he whirls around. She comes into view, already crouching in front of him. Her eyes are big and brown and familiar, and he runs up to her. She seems fine, she sounds all right, but the water is still rushing, and he can’t be sure.
Her hands are reaching for him and then he is lifted, his paws losing solid ground but finding her arms and chest. He meows pitifully and feels ridiculous a moment later. He is already all grown! He shouldn’t be afraid of a little water!
“I’m okay, love, I’m all right. Don’t worry, I’m okay, see?” She pets him and presents her hands to him. He sniffs them, and her, and slowly calms down. She still smells of badness, but she isn’t in pain, she isn’t scared. The water is still rushing into a big, cold white basin. He eyes it with suspicion. There are bubbles on top, shining in rainbow colours, but they don’t trick him into thinking it’s a safe arrangement. Beneath, the water must be deeper than it looks. It would submerge him entirely. He doesn’t like it one bit.
“I won’t even get into it,” she continues, petting him again. “I’ll stay on that stool over there, see the stool? I’ll just be helping Severus here–”
“The hell you will, woman, I won’t have you watching me bathe. You were my student a second ago!”
“I was your student before you assassinated the Headmaster–”
“It was hardly an assassination!”
“Strategically murdered, then, with his consent–”
“Why are my murder charges being brought up just because I don’t want to bathe in front of you! Afford me some dignity and privacy!”
She puts Crookshanks down on top of a shelf. It’s high enough that he can see the entire room and still be far away from the water. Water is fine in theory – it is, he has walked around the lake plenty of times (with a safe distance!). But the two-legged submerge themselves voluntarily! They cannot breathe down there, he is sure they cannot, and everything is wet and their eyes can’t even work properly. And sometimes, when they get out, they think it’s great fun to sprinkle Crookshanks with water. It is never fun to sprinkle Crookshanks with water. His claws itch to come out at the mere thought, and he resolves to watch the others carefully to make sure they don’t get any ideas.
She crosses her arms. “Can you wash your own hair, then? There’s gunk in it.”
The man-who-watches is sitting on the splashy litter tray, the one that has a thick leg and a lid to close it. It’s closed now, which is good. He looks exhausted and Crookshanks thinks he might fall in, otherwise. “I could just submerge–”
“Can’t get the bandage wet.”
The man-who-watches groans and thudds his head against the wall behind him. “I despise you,” he purrs. She looks pleased, for some reason. Finally, she turns off the rushing water. All that remains is the threatening sound of it lapping gently against the walls of the large basin, and the bubbles rustling together. Now and again, one pops.
The two of them start shuffling again. Getting the man-who-watches out of his dark clothes takes some time, and she turns very red in the process. It might be a lot of hard work, Crookshanks thinks, to peel the man-who-watches out of the black fabric. Maybe she is turning red because she is hot? Finally, they manage to arrange his long, pale, furless limbs into the water. She takes a seat on the stool behind his head so when he tilts it back, she can hold it in her hands.
“Hair first or body first?”
“I can wash myself. Just give me a flannel.”
She reaches for something but only hands it over hesitantly. “Your injuries–”
“Will be fine. Really. I appreciate your worry– which sounds sarcastic now that I say it, but that’s mostly by habit, I do appreciate it. But, Granger, you may not realise this, but I am an adult. And you may be my former student, but you are also an… adult. A rather… an adult. Person. A woman. And I– I was going somewhere with this, I’m sure. Either way, just hand me–”
Crookshanks starts washing his paws. They taste a little soapy from the air. Below, his home drops something in the water and it splashes.
“Oh, sorry, so sorry, Si– Severus. Snape. Severus Snape. Sorry, I’ll–”
“Did you not listen to a word– take your hand out from–”
“Sorry!” She snatches her hand back from the water as if… well, as if she was just dropped in water. Crookshanks cleans himself even more intently. He told her all the water was a bad idea. Nobody ever listens to him when he is right.
“This might have been a bad idea,” she says. Crookshanks rubs his cleaned paws over his nose and then attacks them again with vigour. I told you.
There is more splashing. The man-who-watches grabs something and starts rubbing it down his arms viciously. “I told you,” he mutters. Crookshanks thinks he might like the man-who-watches. The two of them settle into silence, just the water splashing dangerously now and then. He settles his head on his paws and watches. The room is warm and the air humid, and he grows sleepy again. There’s the click of something being opened, and an awkward squelching noise.
“Don’t say anything,” she murmurs, a similar tone to when she grows melancholy and has long, quiet conversations with Crookshanks on the bedroom floor. “I know you can do this yourself, but maybe I’d like to do it, have you considered that?”
A heavy sigh. “Just be careful, will you? Don’t rub soap into it.” His voice is soft, too. Deep. Crookshanks cracks open an eye. His home has her hands in the dark man’s hair. It’s all wet and dripping, and she lathers it up carefully. It’s similar to how she cleaned Crookshanks, that one time everything itched so much. She combed his fur out then, too, and it twinged and pulled in sensitive places but he felt better after. And he let her do it, because he knows she needs to feel like she is useful, sometimes. He’s selfless like that. He wonders if that is why she is cleaning the-man-who-watches, too.
“I thought for sure that we had lost you,” she mutters.
He hums. “I am sure most of your friends will be disappointed to find that you haven’t.”
She is quiet. There is a wrinkle above her eyes that happens when she needs time to think. She thinks a lot. He hopes it helps. It looks awfully hard.
“I am not.” More thinking. “I would have been… disappointed if we had.”
“Disappointed,” he repeats. He sounds like he is thinking, too, though it’s hard for Crookshanks to be sure. He always sounds very serious. “At least I get a ‘disappointed’. Maybe that makes putting up with you worth it.”
A louder splash. Crookshanks jumps up, but she seems to have done it on purpose. The man-who-watches is sputtering and attempting to glare upwards. Considering she is still cradling his head, it looks very silly.
“Don’t pretend, Snape. You enjoyed teaching me. If not at school, then at least at Grimmauld, before we went off with Harry on our own. I’m onto you.”
Crookshanks leans forward to study them more. They seem all right, despite the water, even though the-man-who-watches is turning splotchy. Crookshanks wonders if he might be moulding. Can the two legged mould? Or perhaps this is his way to become red, even though it does not cover his entire face like it does hers. Does that make him ready to fight, or pleased? Knowing the man-who-watches, possibly both. He always seems a little pleased to fight.
“Yes,” he says, finally, almost too low to be heard over the splashing of the water. “I am afraid you might be.”
After that, they do not stay in the water long. Crookshanks is immeasurably relieved. Nothing happened, but there was always the danger– always the water, glittering like so many sharp edges in the shine of the candles. There was a brief moment where he forgot his worries enough to chase around a soap bubble or two, but when he slipped on a puddle and almost careened against the doorway, he decided instead to sit and watch a little longer. Only a little bit after, she helps the man-who-watches out of the water and wraps him in a large drying blanket. He puts up a token protest, but she is determined, and Crookshanks thinks the man is very wise to not stand in her way too much. She needs an expert hand if you want her to do something specific, and while the man-who-watches is very capable to be sure, he doesn’t have Crookhanks’ expertise and experience.
“Let me do your hair, too.” Her voice is gentle. Crookshanks grows a little jealous and he inches closer. She is his home. He won’t let anyone take his home from him, not even the man-who-watches. “You’re obviously exhausted.”
The man sighs and tilts his head backwards. It meets her stomach gently, and she takes another fluffy drying blanket, a small one this time, and rubs it carefully over his head. Crookshanks goes to sit on her feet to make sure she doesn’t think she can go off without him. Not that she is going anywhere. But just in case.
“Don’t think I’d let anyone else do this, Granger,” the man murmurs, and it’s so quiet that Crookshanks can hear it, but he isn’t sure if she can. “This is a you-specific arrangement, don’t go telling anyone about this.”
She keeps wiping down his hair, enveloping it in the white thing, squeezing and patting. “You’re delirious. Shut up before you say something you’ll regret saying.”
“No regret,” he whispers. “Should, maybe. But I almost died today, you know.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” He is slurring his words. She huffs a laugh.
“Up you get. Let me get some soup in you before you drop off, and then you need some more sleep.”
He hums. They shuffle upwards, which dislodges Crookshanks. He protests and gets a pat in passing. She is busy nudging the man towards the door. He stumbles on the way, and his feet barely lift from the ground.
Suddenly, the dark man stops moving. His home doesn’t notice in time, and almost knocks them both over when she fumbles. Crookshanks accidentally hits his head on her leg.
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” The man says. “Don’t make me wake up alone.”
She seems to stop breathing for a moment. Concerned, Crookshanks circles around them and reaches up, putting his paws on her knees to peer up at her. She doesn’t even notice. She is staring at the man-who-watches. “But– your privacy–”
The man huffs, and it sounds like it takes a lot of energy for him to do it. “You saw me naked. I am not asking you for… for anything untoward. Just…”
“All right. I… All right. I will.”
The man smiles. Very small, but he does. Crookshanks presses closer to his home’s legs. He has learned that two-legged are much more susceptible to smiles. They let themselves be taken in by weirdly shaped lips and sparkling teeth. Cats know better, but then of course, he cannot expect her to be as wise as him. So he watches her closely. Her own mouth moves to mirror the man’s small smile, and Crookshanks hisses.
“Crooks! What’s wrong with you? We got rid of the water, it’s all right! Stop hissing at him!” Crookshanks hisses at him harder, all the way through the caverned room and into another one (“Are you sure I can go in–” “Merlin, Granger I am dead on my feet, just fucking move, the room won’t bite you–”) that’s done up with dark hanging fabric and has one of those large, soft things that they sleep on in the middle. His home all but drops the man onto it, and he bounces a little and hisses for a moment, too.
“Sorry!”
“Merlin, just stop apologising. One day I’ll run out of the patience to reassure you.”
For some reason, she seems pleased with this. “One day, huh?”
“Shut up and get that soup.”
“Yes, Sir!”
She leaves the room. For a moment, Crookshanks is caught between following her and watching the man on top of the soft contraption. He has just decided to follow when the man rolls over, and his head pokes over the edge of it. His dark eyes fix on Crookshanks.
“Hello, cat,” he says. His words are slow, his voice is deep and rough, and when he blinks, his eyes stay closed for a little closer than they should. “I wanted to have a word with you.”
Crookshanks sits down and cleans his paws again. It is very dusty in these rooms.
“I’m getting the feeling you dislike me,” the rough voice continues. “Might that be right?”
Crookshanks does not reply.
“I’m talking to a fucking cat,” the man mutters to himself. “Great job, Severus. Almost die, have Granger save you– of all people, Granger. Hermione. Like teaching her and having her follow you around in Grimmauld Place wasn’t enough. Fuck. How am I supposed to– if she is there all the time, how am I supposed to–” He suddenly fixes Crookshanks with an intense look. Crookshanks freezes in the middle of cleaning between his toes. “Your owner is a confounding woman, you know that?”
Crookshanks meows. At least they agree on something.
“But then,” the man-who-watches continues muttering, “she isn’t the fool who asked her to stay. Stay. What am I, a toddler? A fool in love?” He looks at Crookshanks as if he expects him to answer that question. Crookshanks looks back. He isn’t here to answer anyone’s questions. At most, he is here to look lovable and fight their enemies. Since their big fight seems to have calmed down now–everyone either dripping or running or frozen still–he thinks there might be less need for the latter. Considering this conversation doesn’t seem to be that pressing, he dedicates himself to his toes again.
“Ridiculous,” the man-who-watches mutters. “I must have hit my head when I went down.” Crookshanks starts cleaning his butt. The man-who-watches grimaces. “No, you’re right, this insanity when it comes to her has been going on longer than just tonight. But it’s – sometimes I feel like there might be–do you think she might be–but what am I asking you for, you’re a cat.”
There’s a noise. Crookshanks freezes, one leg in the air, tongue still poking out, and stares down a moving thing halfway across the room. The man-who-watches, still hanging off the soft thing, his fur framing his head in a ridiculous way, twists around and watches, too. “What’s over there?”
It was just dust. Crookshanks yawns and goes back to cleaning.
The man-who-watches groans. “Either way. What I was attempting to say is that I understand if you’re unsure about me. In these times… I would be, too. But I promise you, I won’t hurt her.”
Crookshanks levels him with a flat stare. A promise like that would hold more weight if he hadn’t just watched herds of two-legged cut each other down like trees.
“No, no, you’re right. Who can promise that, really? But I can promise to you I will try not to. There, is that satisfactory?”
Crookshanks yawns again. Maybe it’s almost time for another nap.
“I used to know a cat like you,” the man-who-watches muses. “Whip-smart, really, but not quite as bold. It was my neighbour’s, you know. I wonder what happened to her. Tabby cat. Really beautiful, honestly, and very sweet. She used to hide from me, but over time, she warmed to me. I wonder how she is now– I think her name was… S something? S…” He draws the letter out in an almost feline hiss and flops back down in the pillow. It’s a clumsy movement, at odds with his usual almost feline grace. Almost, because Crookshanks sees the bits and pieces where the dark man’s careful elegance comes apart. But it’s all right. He can practise.
As if to prove that he is still lacking, the man-who-watches emits a loud, craggy noise. Crookshanks puts his paws on the soft thing and peeks up. The man-who-watches has his mouth open and his eyes closed. His chest rises and sinks, and whenever it rises, the noise happens. Crookshanks sits back on his haunches.
Only a moment or two later, his home sweeps back into the room. She seems a little frazzled. To calm her down, he winds around between her legs.
“Crooks– Crooks stop, I’m holding soup– oh my– can you sit still?”
She sounds very stressed. He headbutts her to reassure her. She sighs heavily and puts the soup down on the boxy thing next to the soft thing. Then she stands there for a moment and watches the man-who-watches right back. Crookshanks stands next to her.
“He fell asleep, huh? Understandable. I could sleep for a million years, and I didn’t have his injuries.”
She turns to Crookshanks then. “Can you believe he asked me to stay? Me. I thought he might be tolerating me, yes, but … Maybe… Do you think– Oh, I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. He is hurt.”
She reaches down and pets him for a moment or two. Crookshanks can’t help the purr that rises up. She abandons that quest all too quickly again. “Well. If he wants me to stay… I should probably stay?”
She looks around, as if looking for something. There’s not a lot in the room. “No chair,” she mutters. “But I am a witch, aren’t I? But then… maybe he needs closer observation?” Here, she looks down at Crookshanks as if he can contribute to whatever she is doing. “He probably does. So he doesn’t die in his sleep or something.”
Crookshanks would like to point out that the man-who-watches has stopped making his noises, and that one of his eyes is cracked open. But his home is deep in her thoughts and doesn’t notice.
“It’s not overly familiar if it’s a necessity,” she says firmly and moves her head up and down. “Whether or not I enjoy it is irrelevant. Nobody asked whether I’d like to be held by him, or whether I think he looks handsome, or whether or not I think his brilliant mind is very attractive. It’s a medical necessity. That’s all. I’m being self-sacrificial, here.”
The man-who-watches groans. He sounds half asleep. “Granger. Do us both a favour. Stop rambling on, and just come here.”
There is a moment of silence so long that Crookshanks loses interest. However, when she finally does clamber up onto the soft thing, he finds himself bristling again. And he is supposed to sleep on the floor? He was always allowed on the soft thing with her. And now what? She finds a new one to cuddle, even though he only has two legs and strange paws, and his fur isn’t even half as soft as Crookshanks’ and he sure as hell has never bitten one of the stinky ones for her, and he is relegated to the cold stone floor?
He is debating where best to leave a gift for the man-who-watches– in one of the round metal things he always stirs, perhaps, or maybe in a shoe– when his home peeks over the edge of the soft thing down at him.
“Crooks? Baby? Are you coming up?” She even pats the soft thing nex to her. Crookshanks debates being upset with her for a moment or two, but ultimately, the call of warmth next to her is too persuasive. He leaps up onto the soft thing. It sinks under his paws, and as always, it takes him a moment to get his bearings on it. There are shapes in the darkness that he can make out rather well, but is still unsure what they are. He pats at them carefully to make sure they are not dangerous.
“That’s my foot, you ridiculous cat,” the man-who-watches grumbles. “Will you come up here so we can sleep?”
He stands in the darkness for a moment and debates. The two of them are entangled like roots. The only time he has seen his home do this was when the other two-legged had still frequented her sleeping place. They had often fallen asleep like this, tangled and warm. He thinks he likes this two-legged better, though. The other one had never invited him to sleep with them, but this one scoots backwards a little, so a dip of soft warmth between the two of them becomes free. As thanks, Crookshanks presents him with his backside as he kneads the space into the right shape. Then he circles once, stretches, circles again, and settles down. Almost immediately, two hands descend on him, both warm, even though they are different sizes. Hers pets his head, just how he likes it, but his just settles on his back, warm and large and sure. It reminds him of when he used to curl up with his siblings, before they got adopted.
“Sleep well, you two,” his home murmurs. “Tomorrow, we wake up to a new world.”
“Dramatic,” murmurs the man-who-watches. “Tomorrow, maybe you’ll let me invite you to a meal, somewhere. I want to at least do this somewhat right, if I am to do it.”
His home grins so wide, sleepy and soft, that her teeth glint in the darkness. “This, huh?”
“Oh, shut up,” the man-who-watches mutters, but he slings the hand that was just on Crookshanks across him, settling his hand on his home’s waist. Between them, Crookshanks is protected and warm. He might not have been as sweet as his siblings, or as pretty, or even as quick, he thinks, but in the end, he got the best deal out of all of them. Because he’s got a feeling (and his feelings are usually right) that the size of his home has just doubled. Twice the hands to pet him, to feed him. Twice as many people to look after, too. Unless, of course, they decide to have kittens. He stiffens for a moment in horror, but then decides that he can face that too, should it happen. For now, he knows he can sleep, and be safe. After all that hard work he put in to make sure they both make it, he thinks he deserves to be the one who is looked after, for a while.
