Chapter Text
He stared at her, eyes bulging and mouth agape. “You want me? You want me. The ONE person whom your squashy cat hates, to take care of him while you’re off frolicking at an all-inclusive resort in the Maldives with Parkinson and Weaslette, doing Merlin knows what fuckery!?”
“Yes. I have spoken to him and expla-”
“How do you speak to a cat and expect it to understand you?”
“Crookshanks is part kneazle , regardless, cats are still smart but that's not the point. I’m sure that as long as he continues to perceive you as a non-threat, you will be fine. It won’t be that bad. Besides, he knows I adore you.”
“Hermione………..”
As their conversation quickly devolved into a series of failed protests from him and overly optimistic quips from her, Draco soon realized that whether or not he agreed, he and that dreaded cat were going to have to live together. In the Manor. With his parents. For an entire week. The horror.
And just as Draco predicted, but never consented to, Hermione showed up at his doorstep the day before her vacation with Crookshanks in one arm and a week’s worth of supplies in the other. Draco sighed and begrudgingly let Crookshanks in. Hermione smiled happily, wishing him luck on his week-long ordeal before prancing out of Malfoy Manor’s very big and grand gravel drive.
Draco shut the door once Hermione was out of sight, turning his attention to the red-orange furball who now lounged on his carpet. Crookshanks was innocently grooming himself, he purred happily before sending Draco a scathing glare. At least, that was what Draco interpreted Crookshank’s expression to be.
“Fine Crookshanks,” Draco said, “You’re just a stuck-up cat-kneazle. I will deal with your attitude later. For now, I will look at the instructions that your kind owner, Hermione, has left me, you cat.”
—
Crookshanks paused his grooming only momentarily to meow angrily at Draco. He resumed his licking, this time lifting his hind leg into the air for an aerobic clean. He hissed at Draco to “piss off,” and give him his private grooming time. This message of “piss off” was something that Crookshanks thought he communicated quite clearly, and he was confused when Draco didn’t leave the room. Crookshanks became even more confused when Draco started rustling through his basket of things. Oh look, the foolish blondie is even taking out the wrong can, it’s breakfast time and Draco is taking out my dinner cans, Crookshanks thought. Crookshanks would not stand his dietary affront, so he daintily hopped off the carpet and trotted over to where Draco was standing.
—
Out of the corner of his eye, Draco observed a very angry cat charging towards him with its teeth bared. Crookshanks’ gentle nudge became a paw punching the cat food out of Draco’s hand, a soft redirection became Crookshanks knocking over the entire basket. This was exactly why Draco hated Crookshanks. Glowering, Draco turned towards Crookshanks, readying a string of expletives polluted enough to wipe the smirk off any cat’s face.
—
Crookshanks was mad; Draco was yelling at him for punching the can away when it was Draco’s fault for getting the wrong can. Crookshanks needed to take matters into his own paws. He crawled into the basket mess, kicking aside toys, clawing hygiene items, a blanket, and digging through dinner cans before finding his breakfast cans. He picked one up, soared out of the mess, and walked over to place the can at Draco’s feet. Crookshanks knew that if Draco didn’t get that hint, then Draco was truly stupid, and Crookshanks would be fully justified in hating him.
Draco stopped yelling. Crookshanks observed him short-circuiting. Then suddenly, he saw the understanding wash over Draco. Yes you idiot. Feed me my breakfast.