Scents of Sorrow, Scents of Joy
SCENTS OF SORROW, SCENTS OF JOY
Summary: Crookshanks disliked the loud, ginger-haired one from the first.
Characters: Crookshanks, Hermione, Ron and others
Words: ~1,100
Notes: Something short I dashed off today, while the idea was in my head - stereolightning (“The Cat in the Night”) and gilpin25 (“ Found in Translation”) inspired me, and I thought I’d try my hand at Crookshanks fic!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Crookshanks disliked Ron Weasley from first sight and first smell. The ginger-haired boy with whom Crookshanks’ Hermione inexplicably kept company was loud, obnoxious and had even less sense than the average human, as evidenced by the fact that he allowed himself to be the kept pet of the rat.
That rat!
Valiant Crookshanks would lie in wait for hours, tail twitching, singular of purpose, eyes fixed on the quivering lump in Ron Weasley’s pocket that was the most deceitful creature Crookshanks had scented in all his years of being even cleverer than the average cat. Yet all Ron Weasley did, all that year, was call Crookshanks names like “beast” and “monster,” as he cuddled his treacherous rat.
And even after the rat was revealed and its human finally brought to see sense, Ron Weasley never did seem to understand the value of providing a warm lap or a good scratch under the chin to the brave and loyal cat who had saved him from his own folly. Crookshanks could have forgiven Ron Weasley a great deal, if he’d made the least effort to learn a few of the important things in life.
No, when it came to Weasleys, Crookshanks much preferred the cleverer, sweeter smelling one they called Ginny. And when Hermione and her friends went to stay in the big, dark house of the man who was sometimes a dog, Crookshanks learned to appreciate the littlest ginger-haired littermate all the more. Here was a human who understood the important things, from the joy of chasing butterbeer corks to the crucial importance of identifying good eavesdropping spots in any house where one might find oneself.
Frankly, Crookshanks failed to see why Hermione would spend her time with the daft one rather than the clever one, when she had her pick of Weasleys. Then again, clever Ginny clearly preferred Harry Potter, the obtuse but kind one, and he liked her too, though he didn’t seem to know it yet. Crookshanks would never understand why humans insisted on trying to communicate with imperfect words, when one sniff of each other could have told them all they needed to know.
Humans. Daft as a rule, but Crookshanks did like his Hermione, who held long, one-sided human-word-language conversations with him, and scratched his ears, and always explained what she was doing and why. So, for Hermione’s sake, Crookshanks put up with her human friends.
And in fact he liked the dog-man Sirius, despite the ever-present musty scent of melancholy that followed him where he roamed the dusty rooms of the house. Crookshanks did not generally expend his time in comforting humans, but he would sometimes curl up next to the big black dog, late at night when the others in the house were dreaming in their beds, and Crookshanks would purr and rub his face against the dog’s shaggy side, and the dog would whuff softly back, and the smell of sorrow would retreat for a time.
But then Hermione took Crookshanks back to the castle with the many wonderful hiding places, and he didn’t see sad Sirius again. Crookshanks sometimes wondered, while dozing by the fireplace in the room where the students gathered in the evenings, where the big, shaggy dog had gone, and if anyone was curling up with him to keep him warm. But Crookshanks’ first responsibility, always, was to be with his Hermione wherever she was.
Which was why Hermione’s words, one summer at the ramshackle house with the gnomes in the garden, came as such a betrayal.
“I’m sorry, Crookshanks,” she said, stroking behind his ears in the way that only she, of all the humans Crookshanks had known, had ever got quite right. They were sitting in a patch of sun in the garden, just the two of them for once, no loud Weasleys running about. “I might have to go away from you for a while. Not that I want to, you understand, but Harry and Ron and I have a really important thing we have to do, and I won’t be able to take you with me.”
Crookshanks growled, deep in his throat, which he had never before done to Hermione. But then, Hermione had never before deserved to be growled at.
“Oh, Crookshanks,” she said, her voice wobbling a little. Crookshanks wondered if she was going to spill salty tears as she sometimes did, and if so, what good that did her. It never seemed to change the scent of her sadness. “I’ll come back for you, I promise. You just have to wait a while, okay? I promise I’ll be back for you.”
Two sunsets and sunrises later, they had the big party for the pretty one in the white dress and the oldest Weasley littermate, and then the wizards with the scent of destruction that clung to their dark robes came stomping through the garden, shouting and shooting off bright lights, and Hermione disappeared with obtuse but kind Harry Potter and loud and daft Ron Weasley, and as the seasons rolled past, Crookshanks sat in the window seat - first of the ramshackle house, then of another house after that - and he waited, because Hermione had told him to wait, and he accepted food and occasional petting from the Weasley dam and sire, who smelled of worry, endlessly of worry.
Of Hermione and her two friends, it was Ron Weasley who came back first.
First came a night when all the Weasleys left in a panic, then they came back very late the next morning, smelling faintly of the castle with the many wonderful hiding places, strongly of the wizards who carried the scent of destruction, and overwhelmingly of such a grief that Crookshanks let out an involuntary yowl when the ginger-haired family thronged back into the house, dirty and stumbling with exhaustion and clearly in need of a good nap in a warm place.
And then it was Ron Weasley, loud and daft Ron Weasley, who came straight to Crookshanks, picked him up and pulled him tight against his chest and said, “Hermione’s coming, Crookshanks. She’s okay, we’re okay, and she’s coming back for you.” Ron Weasley smelled of grief, a horrible, acrid grief, but there was some sense of relief about him that told Crookshanks more than human words ever could.
Ron Weasley, the loud, ginger-haired one, scratched Crookshanks’ ears, and he didn’t get it nearly right, but Crookshanks butted his head against Ron Weasley’s chest anyway, and purred.
Summary: Crookshanks disliked the loud, ginger-haired one from the first.
Characters: Crookshanks, Hermione, Ron and others
Words: ~1,100
Notes: Something short I dashed off today, while the idea was in my head - stereolightning (“The Cat in the Night”) and gilpin25 (“ Found in Translation”) inspired me, and I thought I’d try my hand at Crookshanks fic!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Crookshanks disliked Ron Weasley from first sight and first smell. The ginger-haired boy with whom Crookshanks’ Hermione inexplicably kept company was loud, obnoxious and had even less sense than the average human, as evidenced by the fact that he allowed himself to be the kept pet of the rat.
That rat!
Valiant Crookshanks would lie in wait for hours, tail twitching, singular of purpose, eyes fixed on the quivering lump in Ron Weasley’s pocket that was the most deceitful creature Crookshanks had scented in all his years of being even cleverer than the average cat. Yet all Ron Weasley did, all that year, was call Crookshanks names like “beast” and “monster,” as he cuddled his treacherous rat.
And even after the rat was revealed and its human finally brought to see sense, Ron Weasley never did seem to understand the value of providing a warm lap or a good scratch under the chin to the brave and loyal cat who had saved him from his own folly. Crookshanks could have forgiven Ron Weasley a great deal, if he’d made the least effort to learn a few of the important things in life.
No, when it came to Weasleys, Crookshanks much preferred the cleverer, sweeter smelling one they called Ginny. And when Hermione and her friends went to stay in the big, dark house of the man who was sometimes a dog, Crookshanks learned to appreciate the littlest ginger-haired littermate all the more. Here was a human who understood the important things, from the joy of chasing butterbeer corks to the crucial importance of identifying good eavesdropping spots in any house where one might find oneself.
Frankly, Crookshanks failed to see why Hermione would spend her time with the daft one rather than the clever one, when she had her pick of Weasleys. Then again, clever Ginny clearly preferred Harry Potter, the obtuse but kind one, and he liked her too, though he didn’t seem to know it yet. Crookshanks would never understand why humans insisted on trying to communicate with imperfect words, when one sniff of each other could have told them all they needed to know.
Humans. Daft as a rule, but Crookshanks did like his Hermione, who held long, one-sided human-word-language conversations with him, and scratched his ears, and always explained what she was doing and why. So, for Hermione’s sake, Crookshanks put up with her human friends.
And in fact he liked the dog-man Sirius, despite the ever-present musty scent of melancholy that followed him where he roamed the dusty rooms of the house. Crookshanks did not generally expend his time in comforting humans, but he would sometimes curl up next to the big black dog, late at night when the others in the house were dreaming in their beds, and Crookshanks would purr and rub his face against the dog’s shaggy side, and the dog would whuff softly back, and the smell of sorrow would retreat for a time.
But then Hermione took Crookshanks back to the castle with the many wonderful hiding places, and he didn’t see sad Sirius again. Crookshanks sometimes wondered, while dozing by the fireplace in the room where the students gathered in the evenings, where the big, shaggy dog had gone, and if anyone was curling up with him to keep him warm. But Crookshanks’ first responsibility, always, was to be with his Hermione wherever she was.
Which was why Hermione’s words, one summer at the ramshackle house with the gnomes in the garden, came as such a betrayal.
“I’m sorry, Crookshanks,” she said, stroking behind his ears in the way that only she, of all the humans Crookshanks had known, had ever got quite right. They were sitting in a patch of sun in the garden, just the two of them for once, no loud Weasleys running about. “I might have to go away from you for a while. Not that I want to, you understand, but Harry and Ron and I have a really important thing we have to do, and I won’t be able to take you with me.”
Crookshanks growled, deep in his throat, which he had never before done to Hermione. But then, Hermione had never before deserved to be growled at.
“Oh, Crookshanks,” she said, her voice wobbling a little. Crookshanks wondered if she was going to spill salty tears as she sometimes did, and if so, what good that did her. It never seemed to change the scent of her sadness. “I’ll come back for you, I promise. You just have to wait a while, okay? I promise I’ll be back for you.”
Two sunsets and sunrises later, they had the big party for the pretty one in the white dress and the oldest Weasley littermate, and then the wizards with the scent of destruction that clung to their dark robes came stomping through the garden, shouting and shooting off bright lights, and Hermione disappeared with obtuse but kind Harry Potter and loud and daft Ron Weasley, and as the seasons rolled past, Crookshanks sat in the window seat - first of the ramshackle house, then of another house after that - and he waited, because Hermione had told him to wait, and he accepted food and occasional petting from the Weasley dam and sire, who smelled of worry, endlessly of worry.
Of Hermione and her two friends, it was Ron Weasley who came back first.
First came a night when all the Weasleys left in a panic, then they came back very late the next morning, smelling faintly of the castle with the many wonderful hiding places, strongly of the wizards who carried the scent of destruction, and overwhelmingly of such a grief that Crookshanks let out an involuntary yowl when the ginger-haired family thronged back into the house, dirty and stumbling with exhaustion and clearly in need of a good nap in a warm place.
And then it was Ron Weasley, loud and daft Ron Weasley, who came straight to Crookshanks, picked him up and pulled him tight against his chest and said, “Hermione’s coming, Crookshanks. She’s okay, we’re okay, and she’s coming back for you.” Ron Weasley smelled of grief, a horrible, acrid grief, but there was some sense of relief about him that told Crookshanks more than human words ever could.
Ron Weasley, the loud, ginger-haired one, scratched Crookshanks’ ears, and he didn’t get it nearly right, but Crookshanks butted his head against Ron Weasley’s chest anyway, and purred.