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Splayed across his sun bed in an indulgent display of relaxation, Crookshanks yawned and flexed his claws, kneading jubilantly at the knitted blanket beneath him. Just as his senses began to dull with impending sleep, he felt it. A strange sensation punctured his equilibrium, as it had done for the past three days.
The energy that shot through his body was like a storm on a summer’s day, a bolt of electric anticipation. He could practically feel the vibrations rolling off the young man that now stood frozen at the bottom of his porch stairs.
Not this again, Crookshanks thought, immediately exhausted by the intrusion of this doe-eyed stray. Any distress this man might be experiencing was no excuse for the nap time he was eroding.
The cat contemplated chasing off the intruder, but hesitated at the thought. He had been given outdoor privileges for being “a very good boy,” or so his love had told him. His appetites for hunting and prowling had left him in his twilight years and he relished the trust his love had put in him by allowing these precious moments of freedom. Betraying that trust would be more than he could stand; besides, it looked rather cold beyond the porch, where his love had thoughtfully cast warming charms.
He watched as the first delicate snowflakes of the season landed in the young man’s hair, lost in the silvery white pompadour.
If it weren’t for his familiar smell that carried on the breeze upon the man's arrival, Crookshanks would have raised the alarm the first day that he appeared. He had only allowed this intrusion to continue because he recognised the scent; his love had brought it back to the house with her on more than one occasion when returning from an outing. It was amusing to see the source of it in the flesh, now lingering in silent vigil on the stoop.
The man’s boots grated against the stone path as he took up an incessant pacing. Crookshanks narrowed his eyes, agitation blooming in his chest. He flicked his tail in displeasure and this was enough to catch the loiterer’s attention; he was aware now, it seemed, of being under observation.
Without breaking eye contact, the man raised a tentative foot to the first step. Crookshanks blinked slowly, a barely veiled threat. But the man took this as permission to climb the short flight. He jolted as he ascended through the warming charms at the top of the stairs.
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” The man said, approaching him with a proffered hand in greeting. Crookshanks was not surprised to hear this: of course he would be the topic of his love’s conversations. He sniffed the man’s knuckles. He had overdone it on the cologne, but was otherwise fine. Unconcerned, Crookshanks laid his head to rest on his paws, hoping that would be a clear sign of dismissal.
“May I sit?” The man asked obtusely. Crookshanks flicked his tail, and again the man mistook his warning as an invitation to invade his space.
The cat's head snapped up and he opened his jaws in a silent hiss, letting the intruder know that despite his fluffy appearance, he was no pussycat. The man raised both hands in surrender as he shifted beside him.
“Alright, I hear you loud and clear,” he mumbled.
Pleased they’d reached an understanding, Crookshanks turned his head imperiously and expressed his suffering with a long exhale. Time marched ever on and he really hadn’t planned to entertain guests so late in the afternoon.
“I suppose you’ve been wondering what I’ve been doing out here these past few days?” The man asked quietly. Crookshanks didn’t want to admit that he had been a tiny bit curious. He’d figured this was, unfortunately, something of a romantic nature and he didn’t like getting embroiled in his love’s affairs.
“Me and your owner-“
Crookshanks balked.
“Err, your- mistress-“ the man tried to correct, “-well, we’ve recently become reacquainted. I don’t know where I stand with her just yet. I’ve been wanting to…” He trailed off as he pulled a dainty golden envelope from his breast pocket, turning the card over in his hands. “Make my intentions clear.” He sighed.
Interest piqued, Crookshanks pushed against the forces of gravity until he was upright. He leaned forward to inspect the card, which only smelt of the man's obfuscating aroma. The allure was too great: he rubbed his chin on the crisp corner of the envelope, a little snort escaping as he did so. He hated how his squashed nose betrayed him on occasion.
“Hey.” The man said, moving the envelope out of the cat's reach. “That’s not for you.”
Well, of course Crookshanks knew that. He was the soul mate of a very clever witch, after all, who had imparted her wisdom onto him early in their relationship. He attempted a withering glare but the man was staring out into space like a lost lamb and Crookshanks took pity.
“It’s an invitation to the New Years Eve ball at the manor.” The man explained. “I want your- I want Granger to go with me. But I’m not sure if she feels the same way.”
Well, Crookshanks thought. This was serious.
“What if I’ve gotten this all wrong?” The man gave an anguished exhale, the invitation fluttered into his lap as his head dropped into his hands.
Crookshanks, who had been subjected to a barrage of his love's own pained thoughts on the subject of potential romantic misunderstandings, tried to give the man a sympathetic look.
“I should have just sent this by owl,” the man said as he scowled at the letter, a lock of hair falling free from his perfect quaff. The urge to swat at it was tempting.
No. Crookshanks felt a bolt of shame at this kittenish impulse; he was mature, sophisticated and a very good boy, he reminded himself. This unwelcome urge was often a side effect of a mind addled by sleep deprivation.
The man sat slumped over fully now, his despair at his indecision having clearly elevated during the cat's moment of indulgent self reflection.
Crookshanks was running out of daylight hours to enjoy in quiet solitude. He had to get this love-sick fool off his porch. Feigning a big stretch, he sunk his claws just so into the man’s thigh who yelped and shot off the sun bed, the envelope twirling to the ground.
“What was that for?!” He gasped, his expression as wounded as his leg.
Crookshanks smiled as the front door creaked open to reveal a head of brown curls.
“Malfoy?” His love said, her wide eyes moving in bewilderment between the pair of them.
“Granger.” Malfoy replied, whipping around so abruptly Crookshanks was sure he’d sprain something.
His love was already reaching for the gold envelope at her feet.
With Cupid’s arrow firmly nestled in his target, Crookshanks decided to abandon his post on the porch for today. Though he liked to watch the squirrels in their hollows and smell the neighbours' evening roasts drifting down the street in a procession of chicken, beef and gravy scents, he knew there was a quiet, cosy spot for him on the hearth.
As he weaved between his love’s legs and trotted down the hall toward the warm glow of the fire, he heard a small gasp and excited exclamation. His ears pricked to attention.
“Oh, Draco, I thought you’d never ask! I’d love to attend the ball with you.”
With a renewed sense of smug self-assuredness, Crookshanks curled up in front of the fire, having once again proved that he was a very good boy.
