Your Familiar Knows Better

Disclaimer: see chapter one.

Reread by Somigliana

Crookshanks went back to Hogwarts with his mistress late that night, a brand new tattoo in his right ear. The dark-haired man had explained that it’d burn sometimes and that he was to alert his mistress when it happened. The principle was the same as the “Dark Mark” (who was “Dark Mark”?), and nobody would suspect an ordinary tattoo on a cat to be an indication of a meeting with the most sought Death Eater. He’d thought that he could do this for his mistress. Besides, it was his last life, and he needed to secure his place in Heaven.

-----

Before he went to sleep, Crookshanks put his plan for the red-headed boy into motion. He slipped into the boys’ dormitory, took a maroon jumper from the boy’s open trunk and took it to the fifth year girls’ dormitory where he knew that the perfect girl for him was sleeping. She was bound to find the jumper when she’d be at her home the next day, to recognise it, and to take it back to its owner.

The stupid boy had never spared a look for her, he just needed a push in the right direction, not unlike his mistress.

-----

They arrived at the Burrow the next day. Crookshanks liked the place—there were so many gnomes in the garden; they were better than mice, as it was a bit more of a challenge to catch them. He couldn’t have as much fun as he’d liked to, though. He wanted to keep an eye on his mistress, lest the boy would attempt to lure her into a secluded area. He couldn’t let her mate with him.

He was right to be vigilant: the red-headed boy was trying to snuggle against her while she was reading on a wooden bench outside.

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“What are you reading?” the boy asked Crookshanks’ mistress while putting an arm around her and laying his head on her shoulder. She didn’t push him away.

“A book about the uses of the soul in magic through history.”

“What?”

“Only for knowledge purposes, Ron. I’ve taken it from the Restricted Section. Professor McGonagall gave me permission to borrow a few books from school for the holidays.”

“Why not read it later and go for a walk?”

“I’m too tired, Ron. I was feeling a bit down at the idea of not returning to school, and I didn’t sleep well.”

-----

“But not tired enough to read an obscure book?” he teased her gently.

“Well, you know me, I can hardly resist a good book’s appeal.”

“I’m starting to believe you like books more than me.”

“I like them well enough.”

“All right, I’m going to see if Harry is up for a bit of flying.”

He leaned over to kiss her, but his lips never reached hers: an orange fur ball had leapt onto Hermione’s shoulder, creating an obstacle for his kiss. Ron drew back, furiously spitting ginger hair.

“Crookshanks,” she cried. What had gotten in her cat these days?

-----

When Ron moved away, she went back to what she was really doing when he’d come to sit with her: pondering the information Snape had provided her with the previous day, how to check its reliability, and how to have it reach Harry’s ears without her being suspected of collusion with the enemy.

Actually, all of her reading and reasoning had led her to the conclusion that the information was utterly reliable. Now, she would give it to Harry bit by bit, as if she’d come across it, thanks to her research.

On her knees, Crookshanks felt content and sleepy.