Fic: A Tale Of Two Kitties, or How I Helped Sirius Black Find Happiness
A Tale Of Two Kitties, or How I Helped Sirius Black Find Happiness
By minnow_53
Disclaimer: Some of these characters belong to JK Rowling and various corporations.
Summary: Crookshanks reveals his traumatic past and his true role in Remus and Sirius’s reunion.
Rating: PG-13
Era: PoA
Pairings: Crookshanks/Original Cat Character, Remus/Sirius.
Genre: Romance, humour.
Warning: Kitty-porn.
Thank You: To astra_argentea, for reading through and to padawanewan for the matching icon! ♥
AN: There's now a Commentary on this fic: only available via the link!
On my journal, and crossposted to deathly_lollows, remusxsirius and the_kennel.
A Tale of Two Kitties, or How I Helped Sirius Black Find Happiness
When I was but a kitten, I realised I was different from other cats.
My birth family lived next door to a bevy of girls, three identical tabbies with big amber eyes and pert little noses. My master very much hoped I would mate with one of them and produce stripy ginger offspring.
Though I dutifully perched on the fence between our houses and sang to the tabbies every night, I never managed to work up a great deal of interest in them. However brightly their eyes flashed at me in the moonlight, I was, not to put too fine a point on it, unable to perform any further mating rituals.
The day I turned ten months old, a new family moved in to the house on the other side. It was June, I recall - how could I ever forget! - and one fine morning I was busy scratching at a tree in my garden when a polite voice inquired, ‘Excuse me, is this exclusive territory or may I visit from time to time?’
I growled low in my throat, but all sound died when I turned and saw...him.
How to describe him? A vast black tom with eyes so green and sparkling they positively dazzled me! Stromboli, as he was called, possessed just one patch of white, an almost perfect circle on his great, well-formed chest. He kept this patch very clean, and was always to be seen licking it, almost compulsively: indeed, he started to groom it as soon as he had introduced himself.
It was love at first sight, for who could resist a glimpse of rough pink tongue on glossy fur? Not for me a girl tabby with amber eyes, when I might, if luck were with me, ensnare this fine tom, who was obviously somewhat older than I. I only hoped he hadn’t yet been neutered, as was the custom in those days!
He hadn’t: and he was an experienced cat, able to introduce me fully to the delights of love between two felines with a genuine affection for each other.
For that single, magical summer, Stromboli was constantly in my garden or I in his. His family possessed a wonderful cat-flap designed for the larger cat, and I soon found my way into his kitchen, where tempting bowls of tuna and biscuits awaited: almost as if I were an expected and welcome guest!
From there, it was no great distance to the first floor and the master bedroom, where the great, soft bed could have been made especially for the delectation of two cats wildly in love!
Alas, our idyll was shortlived! One morning, early in August, Stromboli’s mistress came home early and discovered us lying together on her lacy pillow, in post-coital bliss. She flapped her hands at me and shrieked, ‘Get out of my house, you mangy beast!’ which was extremely unfair, as it was generally agreed that my fur was rather fine, and my tail exceptionally plumy.
My own family, upon being alerted to my presence in Stromboli’s house, were cross and possibly a little disgusted, obviously discerning the true reason for my visits. They decided to dispatch me as soon as possible to the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley. ‘No doubt some child on his or her way to Hogwarts will want you!’ my master said, curling his lip derisively. ‘We certainly do not!’
He added meanly, ‘As for that Stromboli of yours, he is obviously the father of the kittens that were recently born next door.’ In my last hours of freedom I crept across the fence to peer in through the sitting room window. Indeed, at least twelve of the fifteen new arrivals were black with white patches, and exceptionally large for newborns.
My heart broke at this evidence of Stromboli’s treachery.
*
For the first week or so at the Magical Menagerie, I was so miserable that I repelled all comers, growling and narrowing my eyes whenever a child showed an interest in me. The salesgirl occasionally reached into my cage to plonk down water or a rather inferior brand of biscuit, and I never failed to hiss and scratch her.
To add insult to injury, the staff of the Menagerie started calling me Crookshanks. My former owners had named me Jason, a proud name from Greek myth, bestowed on me because I possessed fur reminiscent of a golden fleece. In vain did I try to get across to the stupid salesgirl that she’d made a mistake: sadly, she was lacking the gift of Legilimency.
I especially resented the implication that my legs were bowed. Stromboli always opined that I had the finest four limbs he had ever come across in another cat.
My control finally snapped when a red-headed boy came in with a rat so pungent, so reeking of rodent, that I was forced to leap from my cage on its high shelf to try to catch it. In vain did the salesgirl cry ‘Crookshanks, get OFF!’ and try to restrain me.
‘I answer to Jason, witch,’ I snarled, and gave the red-head’s hair a thorough raking for good measure.
Rather to my surprise, the boy’s friend, a girl with bushy hair and a loud voice, took a liking to me: or so I inferred, because she showed great interest in me, parting my thick fur to check for ticks and examining my tail closely. Eventually, she told the salesgirl, ‘I think I’ll take him.’ She sounded friendly enough, so I suffered her to pick me up and carry me: I may even have purred a little. I felt it was, perhaps, better to submit and go to a place where I would at least be comfortable and fed, rather than languish forever in this hellhole, where inaccessible birds twittered, and which smelled like a filthy barn.
Hogwarts School was, naturally, a great improvement: and, I must admit, not a bad place to nurse a broken heart. Though my young mistress didn’t allow me much freedom - she was always picking me up and hugging me - the food was excellent, and the beds almost as soft as Stromboli’s mistress’s bed had been: though without a loving tom to curl up with, even the softest four-poster seems but a wilderness!
Whenever she called me ‘Crookshanks’ I could not help but remember the day Stromboli said, ‘Jason is a beautiful name, but I shall call you Jay. It will be our private nickname.’ Then, I would recall Stromboli’s voice under my window each morning, calling, ‘Jay, come down and play with me!’ and my eyes would fill with tears.
While my mistress slept, I used to lie awake tossing and turning, unable to forget the past. In order to keep myself occupied during the nocturnal hours, I took to sneaking out of Gryffindor Tower and into the Hogwarts grounds, where the mice were plentiful and the hunting alleviated my pain.
*
I first met Sirius Black on one such occasion, when he was clothed in the form of a big black dog. I was playing with an exceptionally plump mouse, and was about to deliver the coup de grace when Black loped over, put his huge paw over it and growled, ‘Mine!’
This was unfair, and I told the dog so in no uncertain terms.
To my surprise, he did not press his canine advantage but replied, ‘You’re right! But I’m starving, so I hope you don’t mind letting me have a tiny taste. I can tell by your sleek fur that this is just a snack for you, whereas to me, each mouse represents three or four meals.’
The compliment he paid me put me in mind of my meeting with Stromboli. I sensed in Black a similar intensity, a similar disregard for the female of the species: of any species. Of course, one has to be sensitive about such matters. I believe my first words to him, when we had shared the mouse, were, ‘Have you ever fathered any puppies?’
Black wagged his tail and said, ‘I shouldn’t think so! I haven’t fathered any creature at all. I do not care for girls and women, no, nor bitches either!’ He then shed his dog form and stood in front of me in the shabby garb of a former prisoner. I noted that his whiskers would have put Stromboli’s to shame, a fact that caused me no little satisfaction.
‘In fact’ - he lowered his voice - ‘I have for many years been in love with a fellow-wizard, Remus Lupin.’
Had I been sitting on a chair when he said that, I would have fallen off! For I knew Remus Lupin: he was a teacher at the school.
When I say ‘knew’, I mean that my mistress often prattled about him. She spoke of so many teachers and lessons that it sometimes made my head ache, but as far as I could remember, Professor Lupin was one of her favourites. She complained from time to time that he didn’t give them enough homework, but otherwise he was satisfactory.
‘Sadly, he believes I’m a dangerous convict on the run,’ Black said in a voice that shook with emotion. ‘How I wish we could be together again! Last time I saw him I did him a great injustice.’
He put his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up again with hollow, tragic eyes. ‘For the past thirteen years, I have wanted nothing more than to be able to tell him that I was wrong and beg his forgiveness.’
He added, a bit more briskly, ‘Of course, I’m after that damn rat as well, the one belonging to the red-headed boy. Once I’ve killed it, I shall be vindicated and Remus and I can be together forever. If he will only have me!’ He gave a sound midway between a sob and a groan.
I jumped on to his lap and kneaded my paws on his threadbare robes: a useful way of sharpening my claws, besides being a comfort to the broken man. When Black gently shook me off, I said, ‘I see the red-head and his beastly rodent every day! I could easily catch the rat for you, if you like.’
Black leapt up, his eyes now ablaze with hope! ‘Could you? If you can catch him and bring him to me, I’ll be forever in your debt.’
*
Alas, my boast about the rat was premature! In my attempt to catch him, I inadvertently let him run away, and for many days I could not face Sirius Black, either in dog or human form.
Eventually, I steeled myself to be brave. Had I not survived the death of my great romance with Stromboli? I could certainly survive the displeasure of a relative stranger!
However, Sirius Black was, as I have implied, an unusual man. He took my news calmly, or so it appeared at first.
‘It may be better like this,’ he remarked. ‘Remember, you’re not the only one to have botched the job. But my instincts tell me he is not far away, and perhaps if we leave well enough alone and lull him into thinking he is safe, he will reappear and we can get him.’
He punctuated the word ‘get’ with a violent thumping of his fist on a nearby tree trunk; whereupon I shuddered a bit! I was glad the man didn’t have a wand.
Though taken aback by his sudden wrath, I was moved as well, and resolved to make up for losing his target by helping him with his tragic romance. To this end, I discreetly accompanied my mistress to breakfast in the Great Hall one morning and studied the staff at the high table to ascertain which one was Lupin.
I could imagine Black as a human equivalent of Stromboli, big and proud as he was when in dog form, striding across gardens without a care for tender shoot or new grass. And when I saw Professor Lupin, I experienced something of a shock. For though his hair was greying and his face rather lined, he nevertheless bore the mien of a slightly timid kitten. If Black were Stromboli, Lupin had something of Jason in him, I felt. I could easily envisage him and Sirius Black as young boys in love, one dark and broodingly handsome, one slightly reticent, with sandy hair and an eager smile.
When I next saw Sirius Black, I felt compelled to ask about the nature of the relationship. ‘Was Lupin younger?’ I enquired, and Black barked a bit and replied, ‘No! We were in the same class. Of course, you could say he was younger in experience. He led a very sheltered life before he came to Hogwarts.’
While I was brooding on the reasons why this might have been, Black transformed into a man again, obviously overcome by the thought of his childhood sweetheart. ‘He was a very gentle boy,’ he observed, his voice rather tremulous, as it always was when he spoke of Lupin. ‘He used to press flowers, and study the habits of native birds. I must admit, my interest in ornithology begins and ends with the owl bringing my post, so I always used to tease him mercilessly.’
Stromboli too, surprisingly for such a big, mature cat, had also enjoyed flowers: he loved to sniff the roses that grew in such profusion that happy summer of our romance. He also liked to nap under the rosemary bush in his garden, which left his fur smelling irresistibly herby.
However, I was more versed in ornithology. Many a time had I skilfully caught and killed a tender starling, even a bluebird, for Stromboli and me to enjoy as a preliminary to our romantic encounters.
‘Does he like cats?’ I enquired, thinking that perhaps I could ingratiate myself with the professor and lead him to the spot where Sirius Black spent most of his nights.
‘No, sadly! He always said it was because he loved birds so much, but I think it’s because he was frightened by a black and white cat when he was six years old. It jumped down at him from a tree in his garden, he fled in terror, and got bit -’ Sirius Black stopped abruptly, but he had already said too much.
‘You were going to say he was bitten,’ I remarked, and thought for a moment. ‘He was bitten by that rat, wasn’t he? The one you’re after! And you want to avenge his injury so many years ago.’
Triumphant at my happy guess, I waited for Black to confirm the story, but he merely hid his head in his hands again, his shoulders shaking. I waited for him to compose himself, and then said, ‘I cannot say avenging someone is within my experience. My dear Stromboli was occasionally bitten by fleas, but not too badly. In fact, he used to find the itch from a flea-bite faintly invigorating.’
Too late, I realised that I had revealed rather more than I had intended, and was forced to give Sirius Black a slightly censored version of my sad story.
He was silent when I had finished, and absent-mindedly scratched me under the chin. ‘Looks like we’re in the same boat,’ he said. ‘Let’s make a pact, shall we? If we never get back together with our former partners, you and I shall travel the world, carefree and bold, having adventures, going wherever the wind blows us!’
I nodded, lost for words but feeling that perhaps life without Stromboli might have some purpose after all.
*
Though the thought of adventuring with Black had its enticements, I nonetheless pursued my mission to help my new friend. A few days later, I followed my mistress to Defence Against the Dark Arts, hoping to see Professor Lupin in action and perhaps discern some way of gaining his confidence. Alas, my optimism was short lived! No sooner had I crept into the classroom than Lupin bristled, holding out his wand in a thoroughly aggressive fashion. I could not imagine this angry man pressing a delicate frond of Queen Anne’s lace, or keeping a sparrow’s egg in a homemade nest so the bird might hatch safely.
‘Do I sense a cat in the vicinity?’ he enquired, whereupon my mistress looked round nervously, and, spotting me at her heels, squeaked, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Professor Lupin! He must have got out of the tower somehow. I’ll take him back at once.’
‘Do so, or I shall be forced to treat him as I would a Hinkypunk,’ said Lupin sternly, though I thought I detected a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
I had not supposed that a cat-hater would have such strong radar for us beasts. Normally, we pride ourselves on coming and going fairly unobtrusively, barring the occasional knocking down of furniture and objects.
On the way back to Gryffindor Tower, my mistress was quite angry with me. ‘I’ll get a bad mark in Defence, and it’ll all be your fault!’ she snapped, as she shut me in the dormitory. I was tempted to retaliate with a hiss, but controlled myself; however, when she was gone, I scratched at her trunk, leaving a series of claw marks on the immaculate varnish.
*
After this unfortunate debacle, I devoted a few days to intensive napping, hoping that with sleep would come inspiration.
My dreams, as one would expect, were full of Stromboli. We were playing tag again among the apple trees, pouncing on each other from the leafy branches; just as that long-ago black and white cat had pounced on Lupin, possibly mistaking his sandy hair for the ginger fur of his playmate! Perhaps the black and white cat had been with someone he loved, waiting to be tagged; perhaps he waited still, for a touch that would never come... The thought plunged me into deep melancholy, and for a few days I barely stirred from my mistress’s bed
However, the call of the outdoors is in the very fibre of a cat’s being, and it wasn’t long before I once again took up my practice of hunting in the Hogwarts grounds. My hunting now had a secondary purpose, to vent my frustration at losing the vicious rat.
When I tired of the chase, Black was always to be found near the Whomping Willow, but by tacit consent we no longer spoke about our love-lives, or lack thereof. Instead, we confined ourselves to gruff conversations about the weather or the food I had taken to bringing him when I could sneak into the kitchens.
‘You’re a good cat, Crookshanks,’ he remarked at the close of one glorious summer day, chewing on a chicken drumstick. ‘If it weren’t for you, I’d probably have done away with myself.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I retorted. ‘By all accounts, anyone who can escape from Azkaban can do anything he chooses.’
‘Except catch a measly little rat,’ he said.
We munched on our bones and chatted desultorily about this and that, as had become our wont.
But this was destined to be no ordinary evening! Our companionable talk was interrupted suddenly by the sound of voices and laughter coming from the gamekeeper’s hut, followed by a strange procession striding towards us. Black growled softly under his breath, then bounded across the lawn to meet it, leaving me to watch and wonder...
*
I shall not expound on how we ended up in the Shrieking Shack: greater pens than mine have already related the full history of that fateful event! No doubt curious readers will be able to find and absorb the tale elsewhere.
I will content myself with saying that my heart swelled as Black and Lupin embraced, holding each other for what seemed like an eternity. I wordlessly cheered Black on as he whispered, ‘Moony, at last, at last!’ To my sensitive ears, this resounded as a ringing declamation, though I believe the two men were keeping their voices low, so as not to scandalise the children.
Professor Lupin replied, ‘Padfoot, I have been in hell for thirteen years! Yet now I feel I am in heaven, and all my suffering has been worthwhile.’
‘I shall never leave your side again,’ Black vowed, and Remus nuzzled him and declared, ‘Nor I yours! Musketeers again, and forever, though there be only two of us left!’
At this point, my mistress’s friend Harry rolled his eyes and said, ‘Guys, get over it already!’
Lupin, with the biggest, widest smile I have ever seen on a man, said, ‘No, Harry! We will never get over it, and neither do we want to.’ And they embraced again.
I must confess that I felt a bit envious, now that Black and his professor were reunited. I was sad, too, for the future that would not come to pass after all. Never would Black and I sail the seven seas, or wander through souks in a foreign land; never again would we share a chicken wing or mouse’s head...
However, I put on a brave face, and held my tail high, just as I had throughout my ordeals. Indeed, I led the humans down the passage to the Whomping Willow, a proud moment for me, and one I shall cherish forever.
*
Sadly, I can recollect very little after that affecting scene. My next conscious thought arrived some hours later, when I found myself, I know not how, lying in a heap beside the Forbidden Forest. All was silent.
I limped back to the Shack, where I watched the gloomy shadows play round the tattered bed. I had no care about my mistress or her friends, wherever they might be. My head felt strangely light, as if I had sustained a blow to it: indeed, I believe I had a concussion of some sort. In my delirium I returned to happier days, to a time when I was with my beloved Stromboli. For a few ecstatic moments, I relived our favourite game, the game of trying to get round the house without touching the floor - Stromboli did so enjoy leaping from chair to sofa to banister! The loser had to wash the winner, and I do believe Stromboli always lost on purpose, to my intense delight! Oh, how I yearned for the touch of his large, gentle paws holding me down as he licked the top of my head!
I may have let out a howl or two, so great was my torment, and it took me a few moments to register the sound of another cat purring close by.
At first, I was convinced, in my dementia, that I was hearing the growls of the hounds of hell. My fur bristled and my plumy tail grew plumier still as I tensed my muscles ready to pounce, to defend myself to the death.
‘Jay!’ I felt a warm body next to me, as if someone had crept up on to the bed. ‘Jay, it’s me! I’ve finally found you!’
With anguish in my heart I turned to confront my chimera, and saw a black cat: a thin black cat with bleeding paws, a cat who looked as if he had not eaten for the past two weeks, a cat whose white patch stood out starkly on his jutting breastbone. However, the eyes, so green, so sparkling, so full of love...those I would have recognised anywhere!
‘Are you really...are you really here?’ I finally whispered, when my tears had stopped welling and I was able to speak.
‘Yes, I’m really here, Jay,’ Stromboli said. ‘I could not at first believe you had gone away! I’ve spent the best part of a year piecing the tale together. I finally started lurking in your old house - they’ve kept the cat-flap - and heard your wicked master confiding that you had been sent to the Magical Menagerie. I went to Diagon Alley in search of you, found you had been sold, and...’ He shivered, his shoulder-blades alarmingly sharp beneath the fur that looked so thin, so vulnerable. I longed to hold him close and never let him go, to love him and keep him safe forever.
But first, I had to uncover the truth.
‘Before we go any further, I have to tell you that I know,’ I said.
Stromboli looked blank. ‘Know what?’
‘About the kittens.’
‘Kittens?’
From the sound of it, he had no idea of what I was talking about. For a moment I was filled with unease - surely a creature in such a debilitated state would not be able to feign innocence so convincingly!
Yet had I not seen the big, black kittens with my very own eyes? I hardened my heart and snarled, ‘Yeah, Stromboli. Three tabby girls? Next door to me? Does that ring a bell?’
I saw understanding dawn in his eyes, and he started to laugh helplessly. My fur bristled again.
‘I don’t find infidelity especially funny,’ I said, as stiffly as I could.
‘Jay,’ he said. ‘Oh, Jay! You didn’t really think...me and those wretched tabbies? Don’t you remember Buster from across the road?’
I believe I mentioned that I used to sing to the three tabby girls, as was expected of me. On one occasion, an irate householder had poured a bucket of water over me. I felt, at this second, the same shock I had felt then. A terrible doubt assailed me, making my blood run cold.
Buster! How could I have forgotten him? How could I have been so blind?
Though totally lacking Stromboli’s beauty and charm, Buster was also a big black cat, and he was generally reputed to be a real one for the ladies. I had often heard him tell one or other girl cat of how his gang had triumphed over the local dogs, whose fierceness was legendary.
Stromboli put his paw on top of mine and looked into my eyes. I saw nothing in his steadfast gaze to make me doubt him.
‘You mean Buster fathered those kittens?’ I asked, knowing the answer before the words were out of my mouth.
‘Jay, he was boasting about it all over the neighbourhood!’
‘I must have missed that,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I was too wrapped up in you. In us.’
‘So was I,’ Stromboli said hastily. ‘But Buster did go on a bit, you know.’
I immediately begged Stromboli’s forgiveness for doubting him, and naturally that forgiveness was given instantly and generously: for my Stromboli was the most wonderful, amazing tom cat in the universe!
My one residual fear was that his owners had taken him to the vet in the interim. I was relieved, overjoyed, indeed, to find this was not the case.
I glanced out at the full moon shining benignly on a pair of lovers reconciled at last. For a fleeting moment, I thought of Black and Lupin, who were probably already far away, lying together on some grassy bank by a loch. Then, I turned to my dear Stromboli and put my paws around him.
There were no lacy pillows in the Shack, and the bed was hard as could be, and shabby to boot. Yet I do believe that there never has been, nor ever will be, such a happy and fulfilled couple as Stromboli and I were that night: not even excepting Sirius Black and his professor!
End
By minnow_53
Disclaimer: Some of these characters belong to JK Rowling and various corporations.
Summary: Crookshanks reveals his traumatic past and his true role in Remus and Sirius’s reunion.
Rating: PG-13
Era: PoA
Pairings: Crookshanks/Original Cat Character, Remus/Sirius.
Genre: Romance, humour.
Warning: Kitty-porn.
Thank You: To astra_argentea, for reading through and to padawanewan for the matching icon! ♥
AN: There's now a Commentary on this fic: only available via the link!
On my journal, and crossposted to deathly_lollows, remusxsirius and the_kennel.
A Tale of Two Kitties, or How I Helped Sirius Black Find Happiness
When I was but a kitten, I realised I was different from other cats.
My birth family lived next door to a bevy of girls, three identical tabbies with big amber eyes and pert little noses. My master very much hoped I would mate with one of them and produce stripy ginger offspring.
Though I dutifully perched on the fence between our houses and sang to the tabbies every night, I never managed to work up a great deal of interest in them. However brightly their eyes flashed at me in the moonlight, I was, not to put too fine a point on it, unable to perform any further mating rituals.
The day I turned ten months old, a new family moved in to the house on the other side. It was June, I recall - how could I ever forget! - and one fine morning I was busy scratching at a tree in my garden when a polite voice inquired, ‘Excuse me, is this exclusive territory or may I visit from time to time?’
I growled low in my throat, but all sound died when I turned and saw...him.
How to describe him? A vast black tom with eyes so green and sparkling they positively dazzled me! Stromboli, as he was called, possessed just one patch of white, an almost perfect circle on his great, well-formed chest. He kept this patch very clean, and was always to be seen licking it, almost compulsively: indeed, he started to groom it as soon as he had introduced himself.
It was love at first sight, for who could resist a glimpse of rough pink tongue on glossy fur? Not for me a girl tabby with amber eyes, when I might, if luck were with me, ensnare this fine tom, who was obviously somewhat older than I. I only hoped he hadn’t yet been neutered, as was the custom in those days!
He hadn’t: and he was an experienced cat, able to introduce me fully to the delights of love between two felines with a genuine affection for each other.
For that single, magical summer, Stromboli was constantly in my garden or I in his. His family possessed a wonderful cat-flap designed for the larger cat, and I soon found my way into his kitchen, where tempting bowls of tuna and biscuits awaited: almost as if I were an expected and welcome guest!
From there, it was no great distance to the first floor and the master bedroom, where the great, soft bed could have been made especially for the delectation of two cats wildly in love!
Alas, our idyll was shortlived! One morning, early in August, Stromboli’s mistress came home early and discovered us lying together on her lacy pillow, in post-coital bliss. She flapped her hands at me and shrieked, ‘Get out of my house, you mangy beast!’ which was extremely unfair, as it was generally agreed that my fur was rather fine, and my tail exceptionally plumy.
My own family, upon being alerted to my presence in Stromboli’s house, were cross and possibly a little disgusted, obviously discerning the true reason for my visits. They decided to dispatch me as soon as possible to the Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley. ‘No doubt some child on his or her way to Hogwarts will want you!’ my master said, curling his lip derisively. ‘We certainly do not!’
He added meanly, ‘As for that Stromboli of yours, he is obviously the father of the kittens that were recently born next door.’ In my last hours of freedom I crept across the fence to peer in through the sitting room window. Indeed, at least twelve of the fifteen new arrivals were black with white patches, and exceptionally large for newborns.
My heart broke at this evidence of Stromboli’s treachery.
*
For the first week or so at the Magical Menagerie, I was so miserable that I repelled all comers, growling and narrowing my eyes whenever a child showed an interest in me. The salesgirl occasionally reached into my cage to plonk down water or a rather inferior brand of biscuit, and I never failed to hiss and scratch her.
To add insult to injury, the staff of the Menagerie started calling me Crookshanks. My former owners had named me Jason, a proud name from Greek myth, bestowed on me because I possessed fur reminiscent of a golden fleece. In vain did I try to get across to the stupid salesgirl that she’d made a mistake: sadly, she was lacking the gift of Legilimency.
I especially resented the implication that my legs were bowed. Stromboli always opined that I had the finest four limbs he had ever come across in another cat.
My control finally snapped when a red-headed boy came in with a rat so pungent, so reeking of rodent, that I was forced to leap from my cage on its high shelf to try to catch it. In vain did the salesgirl cry ‘Crookshanks, get OFF!’ and try to restrain me.
‘I answer to Jason, witch,’ I snarled, and gave the red-head’s hair a thorough raking for good measure.
Rather to my surprise, the boy’s friend, a girl with bushy hair and a loud voice, took a liking to me: or so I inferred, because she showed great interest in me, parting my thick fur to check for ticks and examining my tail closely. Eventually, she told the salesgirl, ‘I think I’ll take him.’ She sounded friendly enough, so I suffered her to pick me up and carry me: I may even have purred a little. I felt it was, perhaps, better to submit and go to a place where I would at least be comfortable and fed, rather than languish forever in this hellhole, where inaccessible birds twittered, and which smelled like a filthy barn.
Hogwarts School was, naturally, a great improvement: and, I must admit, not a bad place to nurse a broken heart. Though my young mistress didn’t allow me much freedom - she was always picking me up and hugging me - the food was excellent, and the beds almost as soft as Stromboli’s mistress’s bed had been: though without a loving tom to curl up with, even the softest four-poster seems but a wilderness!
Whenever she called me ‘Crookshanks’ I could not help but remember the day Stromboli said, ‘Jason is a beautiful name, but I shall call you Jay. It will be our private nickname.’ Then, I would recall Stromboli’s voice under my window each morning, calling, ‘Jay, come down and play with me!’ and my eyes would fill with tears.
While my mistress slept, I used to lie awake tossing and turning, unable to forget the past. In order to keep myself occupied during the nocturnal hours, I took to sneaking out of Gryffindor Tower and into the Hogwarts grounds, where the mice were plentiful and the hunting alleviated my pain.
*
I first met Sirius Black on one such occasion, when he was clothed in the form of a big black dog. I was playing with an exceptionally plump mouse, and was about to deliver the coup de grace when Black loped over, put his huge paw over it and growled, ‘Mine!’
This was unfair, and I told the dog so in no uncertain terms.
To my surprise, he did not press his canine advantage but replied, ‘You’re right! But I’m starving, so I hope you don’t mind letting me have a tiny taste. I can tell by your sleek fur that this is just a snack for you, whereas to me, each mouse represents three or four meals.’
The compliment he paid me put me in mind of my meeting with Stromboli. I sensed in Black a similar intensity, a similar disregard for the female of the species: of any species. Of course, one has to be sensitive about such matters. I believe my first words to him, when we had shared the mouse, were, ‘Have you ever fathered any puppies?’
Black wagged his tail and said, ‘I shouldn’t think so! I haven’t fathered any creature at all. I do not care for girls and women, no, nor bitches either!’ He then shed his dog form and stood in front of me in the shabby garb of a former prisoner. I noted that his whiskers would have put Stromboli’s to shame, a fact that caused me no little satisfaction.
‘In fact’ - he lowered his voice - ‘I have for many years been in love with a fellow-wizard, Remus Lupin.’
Had I been sitting on a chair when he said that, I would have fallen off! For I knew Remus Lupin: he was a teacher at the school.
When I say ‘knew’, I mean that my mistress often prattled about him. She spoke of so many teachers and lessons that it sometimes made my head ache, but as far as I could remember, Professor Lupin was one of her favourites. She complained from time to time that he didn’t give them enough homework, but otherwise he was satisfactory.
‘Sadly, he believes I’m a dangerous convict on the run,’ Black said in a voice that shook with emotion. ‘How I wish we could be together again! Last time I saw him I did him a great injustice.’
He put his head in his hands for a moment, then looked up again with hollow, tragic eyes. ‘For the past thirteen years, I have wanted nothing more than to be able to tell him that I was wrong and beg his forgiveness.’
He added, a bit more briskly, ‘Of course, I’m after that damn rat as well, the one belonging to the red-headed boy. Once I’ve killed it, I shall be vindicated and Remus and I can be together forever. If he will only have me!’ He gave a sound midway between a sob and a groan.
I jumped on to his lap and kneaded my paws on his threadbare robes: a useful way of sharpening my claws, besides being a comfort to the broken man. When Black gently shook me off, I said, ‘I see the red-head and his beastly rodent every day! I could easily catch the rat for you, if you like.’
Black leapt up, his eyes now ablaze with hope! ‘Could you? If you can catch him and bring him to me, I’ll be forever in your debt.’
*
Alas, my boast about the rat was premature! In my attempt to catch him, I inadvertently let him run away, and for many days I could not face Sirius Black, either in dog or human form.
Eventually, I steeled myself to be brave. Had I not survived the death of my great romance with Stromboli? I could certainly survive the displeasure of a relative stranger!
However, Sirius Black was, as I have implied, an unusual man. He took my news calmly, or so it appeared at first.
‘It may be better like this,’ he remarked. ‘Remember, you’re not the only one to have botched the job. But my instincts tell me he is not far away, and perhaps if we leave well enough alone and lull him into thinking he is safe, he will reappear and we can get him.’
He punctuated the word ‘get’ with a violent thumping of his fist on a nearby tree trunk; whereupon I shuddered a bit! I was glad the man didn’t have a wand.
Though taken aback by his sudden wrath, I was moved as well, and resolved to make up for losing his target by helping him with his tragic romance. To this end, I discreetly accompanied my mistress to breakfast in the Great Hall one morning and studied the staff at the high table to ascertain which one was Lupin.
I could imagine Black as a human equivalent of Stromboli, big and proud as he was when in dog form, striding across gardens without a care for tender shoot or new grass. And when I saw Professor Lupin, I experienced something of a shock. For though his hair was greying and his face rather lined, he nevertheless bore the mien of a slightly timid kitten. If Black were Stromboli, Lupin had something of Jason in him, I felt. I could easily envisage him and Sirius Black as young boys in love, one dark and broodingly handsome, one slightly reticent, with sandy hair and an eager smile.
When I next saw Sirius Black, I felt compelled to ask about the nature of the relationship. ‘Was Lupin younger?’ I enquired, and Black barked a bit and replied, ‘No! We were in the same class. Of course, you could say he was younger in experience. He led a very sheltered life before he came to Hogwarts.’
While I was brooding on the reasons why this might have been, Black transformed into a man again, obviously overcome by the thought of his childhood sweetheart. ‘He was a very gentle boy,’ he observed, his voice rather tremulous, as it always was when he spoke of Lupin. ‘He used to press flowers, and study the habits of native birds. I must admit, my interest in ornithology begins and ends with the owl bringing my post, so I always used to tease him mercilessly.’
Stromboli too, surprisingly for such a big, mature cat, had also enjoyed flowers: he loved to sniff the roses that grew in such profusion that happy summer of our romance. He also liked to nap under the rosemary bush in his garden, which left his fur smelling irresistibly herby.
However, I was more versed in ornithology. Many a time had I skilfully caught and killed a tender starling, even a bluebird, for Stromboli and me to enjoy as a preliminary to our romantic encounters.
‘Does he like cats?’ I enquired, thinking that perhaps I could ingratiate myself with the professor and lead him to the spot where Sirius Black spent most of his nights.
‘No, sadly! He always said it was because he loved birds so much, but I think it’s because he was frightened by a black and white cat when he was six years old. It jumped down at him from a tree in his garden, he fled in terror, and got bit -’ Sirius Black stopped abruptly, but he had already said too much.
‘You were going to say he was bitten,’ I remarked, and thought for a moment. ‘He was bitten by that rat, wasn’t he? The one you’re after! And you want to avenge his injury so many years ago.’
Triumphant at my happy guess, I waited for Black to confirm the story, but he merely hid his head in his hands again, his shoulders shaking. I waited for him to compose himself, and then said, ‘I cannot say avenging someone is within my experience. My dear Stromboli was occasionally bitten by fleas, but not too badly. In fact, he used to find the itch from a flea-bite faintly invigorating.’
Too late, I realised that I had revealed rather more than I had intended, and was forced to give Sirius Black a slightly censored version of my sad story.
He was silent when I had finished, and absent-mindedly scratched me under the chin. ‘Looks like we’re in the same boat,’ he said. ‘Let’s make a pact, shall we? If we never get back together with our former partners, you and I shall travel the world, carefree and bold, having adventures, going wherever the wind blows us!’
I nodded, lost for words but feeling that perhaps life without Stromboli might have some purpose after all.
*
Though the thought of adventuring with Black had its enticements, I nonetheless pursued my mission to help my new friend. A few days later, I followed my mistress to Defence Against the Dark Arts, hoping to see Professor Lupin in action and perhaps discern some way of gaining his confidence. Alas, my optimism was short lived! No sooner had I crept into the classroom than Lupin bristled, holding out his wand in a thoroughly aggressive fashion. I could not imagine this angry man pressing a delicate frond of Queen Anne’s lace, or keeping a sparrow’s egg in a homemade nest so the bird might hatch safely.
‘Do I sense a cat in the vicinity?’ he enquired, whereupon my mistress looked round nervously, and, spotting me at her heels, squeaked, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Professor Lupin! He must have got out of the tower somehow. I’ll take him back at once.’
‘Do so, or I shall be forced to treat him as I would a Hinkypunk,’ said Lupin sternly, though I thought I detected a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.
I had not supposed that a cat-hater would have such strong radar for us beasts. Normally, we pride ourselves on coming and going fairly unobtrusively, barring the occasional knocking down of furniture and objects.
On the way back to Gryffindor Tower, my mistress was quite angry with me. ‘I’ll get a bad mark in Defence, and it’ll all be your fault!’ she snapped, as she shut me in the dormitory. I was tempted to retaliate with a hiss, but controlled myself; however, when she was gone, I scratched at her trunk, leaving a series of claw marks on the immaculate varnish.
*
After this unfortunate debacle, I devoted a few days to intensive napping, hoping that with sleep would come inspiration.
My dreams, as one would expect, were full of Stromboli. We were playing tag again among the apple trees, pouncing on each other from the leafy branches; just as that long-ago black and white cat had pounced on Lupin, possibly mistaking his sandy hair for the ginger fur of his playmate! Perhaps the black and white cat had been with someone he loved, waiting to be tagged; perhaps he waited still, for a touch that would never come... The thought plunged me into deep melancholy, and for a few days I barely stirred from my mistress’s bed
However, the call of the outdoors is in the very fibre of a cat’s being, and it wasn’t long before I once again took up my practice of hunting in the Hogwarts grounds. My hunting now had a secondary purpose, to vent my frustration at losing the vicious rat.
When I tired of the chase, Black was always to be found near the Whomping Willow, but by tacit consent we no longer spoke about our love-lives, or lack thereof. Instead, we confined ourselves to gruff conversations about the weather or the food I had taken to bringing him when I could sneak into the kitchens.
‘You’re a good cat, Crookshanks,’ he remarked at the close of one glorious summer day, chewing on a chicken drumstick. ‘If it weren’t for you, I’d probably have done away with myself.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I retorted. ‘By all accounts, anyone who can escape from Azkaban can do anything he chooses.’
‘Except catch a measly little rat,’ he said.
We munched on our bones and chatted desultorily about this and that, as had become our wont.
But this was destined to be no ordinary evening! Our companionable talk was interrupted suddenly by the sound of voices and laughter coming from the gamekeeper’s hut, followed by a strange procession striding towards us. Black growled softly under his breath, then bounded across the lawn to meet it, leaving me to watch and wonder...
*
I shall not expound on how we ended up in the Shrieking Shack: greater pens than mine have already related the full history of that fateful event! No doubt curious readers will be able to find and absorb the tale elsewhere.
I will content myself with saying that my heart swelled as Black and Lupin embraced, holding each other for what seemed like an eternity. I wordlessly cheered Black on as he whispered, ‘Moony, at last, at last!’ To my sensitive ears, this resounded as a ringing declamation, though I believe the two men were keeping their voices low, so as not to scandalise the children.
Professor Lupin replied, ‘Padfoot, I have been in hell for thirteen years! Yet now I feel I am in heaven, and all my suffering has been worthwhile.’
‘I shall never leave your side again,’ Black vowed, and Remus nuzzled him and declared, ‘Nor I yours! Musketeers again, and forever, though there be only two of us left!’
At this point, my mistress’s friend Harry rolled his eyes and said, ‘Guys, get over it already!’
Lupin, with the biggest, widest smile I have ever seen on a man, said, ‘No, Harry! We will never get over it, and neither do we want to.’ And they embraced again.
I must confess that I felt a bit envious, now that Black and his professor were reunited. I was sad, too, for the future that would not come to pass after all. Never would Black and I sail the seven seas, or wander through souks in a foreign land; never again would we share a chicken wing or mouse’s head...
However, I put on a brave face, and held my tail high, just as I had throughout my ordeals. Indeed, I led the humans down the passage to the Whomping Willow, a proud moment for me, and one I shall cherish forever.
*
Sadly, I can recollect very little after that affecting scene. My next conscious thought arrived some hours later, when I found myself, I know not how, lying in a heap beside the Forbidden Forest. All was silent.
I limped back to the Shack, where I watched the gloomy shadows play round the tattered bed. I had no care about my mistress or her friends, wherever they might be. My head felt strangely light, as if I had sustained a blow to it: indeed, I believe I had a concussion of some sort. In my delirium I returned to happier days, to a time when I was with my beloved Stromboli. For a few ecstatic moments, I relived our favourite game, the game of trying to get round the house without touching the floor - Stromboli did so enjoy leaping from chair to sofa to banister! The loser had to wash the winner, and I do believe Stromboli always lost on purpose, to my intense delight! Oh, how I yearned for the touch of his large, gentle paws holding me down as he licked the top of my head!
I may have let out a howl or two, so great was my torment, and it took me a few moments to register the sound of another cat purring close by.
At first, I was convinced, in my dementia, that I was hearing the growls of the hounds of hell. My fur bristled and my plumy tail grew plumier still as I tensed my muscles ready to pounce, to defend myself to the death.
‘Jay!’ I felt a warm body next to me, as if someone had crept up on to the bed. ‘Jay, it’s me! I’ve finally found you!’
With anguish in my heart I turned to confront my chimera, and saw a black cat: a thin black cat with bleeding paws, a cat who looked as if he had not eaten for the past two weeks, a cat whose white patch stood out starkly on his jutting breastbone. However, the eyes, so green, so sparkling, so full of love...those I would have recognised anywhere!
‘Are you really...are you really here?’ I finally whispered, when my tears had stopped welling and I was able to speak.
‘Yes, I’m really here, Jay,’ Stromboli said. ‘I could not at first believe you had gone away! I’ve spent the best part of a year piecing the tale together. I finally started lurking in your old house - they’ve kept the cat-flap - and heard your wicked master confiding that you had been sent to the Magical Menagerie. I went to Diagon Alley in search of you, found you had been sold, and...’ He shivered, his shoulder-blades alarmingly sharp beneath the fur that looked so thin, so vulnerable. I longed to hold him close and never let him go, to love him and keep him safe forever.
But first, I had to uncover the truth.
‘Before we go any further, I have to tell you that I know,’ I said.
Stromboli looked blank. ‘Know what?’
‘About the kittens.’
‘Kittens?’
From the sound of it, he had no idea of what I was talking about. For a moment I was filled with unease - surely a creature in such a debilitated state would not be able to feign innocence so convincingly!
Yet had I not seen the big, black kittens with my very own eyes? I hardened my heart and snarled, ‘Yeah, Stromboli. Three tabby girls? Next door to me? Does that ring a bell?’
I saw understanding dawn in his eyes, and he started to laugh helplessly. My fur bristled again.
‘I don’t find infidelity especially funny,’ I said, as stiffly as I could.
‘Jay,’ he said. ‘Oh, Jay! You didn’t really think...me and those wretched tabbies? Don’t you remember Buster from across the road?’
I believe I mentioned that I used to sing to the three tabby girls, as was expected of me. On one occasion, an irate householder had poured a bucket of water over me. I felt, at this second, the same shock I had felt then. A terrible doubt assailed me, making my blood run cold.
Buster! How could I have forgotten him? How could I have been so blind?
Though totally lacking Stromboli’s beauty and charm, Buster was also a big black cat, and he was generally reputed to be a real one for the ladies. I had often heard him tell one or other girl cat of how his gang had triumphed over the local dogs, whose fierceness was legendary.
Stromboli put his paw on top of mine and looked into my eyes. I saw nothing in his steadfast gaze to make me doubt him.
‘You mean Buster fathered those kittens?’ I asked, knowing the answer before the words were out of my mouth.
‘Jay, he was boasting about it all over the neighbourhood!’
‘I must have missed that,’ I said in a small voice. ‘I was too wrapped up in you. In us.’
‘So was I,’ Stromboli said hastily. ‘But Buster did go on a bit, you know.’
I immediately begged Stromboli’s forgiveness for doubting him, and naturally that forgiveness was given instantly and generously: for my Stromboli was the most wonderful, amazing tom cat in the universe!
My one residual fear was that his owners had taken him to the vet in the interim. I was relieved, overjoyed, indeed, to find this was not the case.
I glanced out at the full moon shining benignly on a pair of lovers reconciled at last. For a fleeting moment, I thought of Black and Lupin, who were probably already far away, lying together on some grassy bank by a loch. Then, I turned to my dear Stromboli and put my paws around him.
There were no lacy pillows in the Shack, and the bed was hard as could be, and shabby to boot. Yet I do believe that there never has been, nor ever will be, such a happy and fulfilled couple as Stromboli and I were that night: not even excepting Sirius Black and his professor!
End