Drama tied in a bloody bow.
The school year has begun, and everything’s off. Everyone’s walking around like they’ve got a cloud of doom hanging over their heads, but honestly? I’m bored. As usual. If I were a human (which I’m obviously not), I’d be finding the nearest sunbeam and napping through it all. Instead, I’m forced to listen to Harry’s dramatic rants about “Voldemort’s return” like it’s some kind of surprise.
I mean, seriously? Voldemort was never gone. At least, not in the sense people think. I’ve met the guy. He’s as annoying as a particularly persistent mouse, but not much worse. Besides, I’ve spent plenty of time hanging out with Nagini—she’s much more interesting. We’ve had several conversations, though I never quite figured out what exactly she was saying in snake language (mostly hissing and slithering around), but it was more tolerable than hearing Harry whine for hours about things he doesn’t understand.
And then there was that one time when I actually ran into Voldemort. He was in some dark corner of Nagini’s Lair. Lurking around like a glorified bat—he didn’t even look like he was coming back from the dead, more like he was just taking a nap between sinister plots. It wasn’t a very good nap. I’d know. Cats have a sixth sense about these things.
So, when everyone is freaking out over the “return” of Voldemort, I roll my eyes. I already knew, people. I’ve had front-row seats to his melodrama.
Crookshanks' POV (on the humans' reactions): "Honestly, are we still on this Voldemort business? I’ve been aware of his existence for years. They act like it’s a shocking reveal. It’s not like I haven’t seen him slinking around with that snake of his. But nope, let’s all pretend this is news."
Then there's Harry. He’s practically vibrating with all his anxiety. His usual go-to is flopping around like a fish on dry land, panicking over every little thing. But no one seems to notice the most important thing: He’s extra dramatic this year.
And Hermione? The girl’s back to her usual bookworm routine. She’s always been too logical to get swept up in the dramatic tides of Harry’s self-made problems. Still, she’s far too focused on her books. I, personally, don’t understand why she can’t just be a bit more like me—relax, be smug, take an occasional nap. But no, Hermione’s always off somewhere, mumbling about something from Hogwarts: A History, which never seems to end.
I’m honestly trying my best to stay out of this human nonsense. So, I find the perfect solution: There’s a nice cozy spot by the fire, and I curl up. But not before knocking over a stack of Harry’s important papers—he’ll sort it out eventually, I’m sure. He always does.
Crookshanks' POV (on Harry's whiny antics): "Oh, Harry, could you please be a bit less melodramatic? I swear, if I had a nickel for every time you exaggerated about something, I’d have a whole treasure trove of catnip."
Oh, and then there’s that business with the Ministry of Magic sending owl after owl to warn us about the supposed dark times ahead. I can’t be bothered. Who cares about an owl’s message when there’s a nice nap to be had?
Crookshanks' POV (on the humans and their useless warnings): "Dark times? Sure, if they insist. But it’s all just background noise for my afternoon nap."
At least I’ve got some peace and quiet—except when Harry barges in, his face the picture of self-important angst (not that I would know anything about angst—I’m a cat, after all). "Crookshanks, do you know what this means?" he keeps saying, shaking some dusty, old prophecy book in my face.
I don’t know what it means. I just know that my tail flicks with utterly unbothered disdain. He’s still panicking. And I’m still napping. Life is good when you're a cat.