The Secrets of Grimmuald Place.
The stench of Grimmauld Place assaults my nose the moment I cross the threshold. Dust, despair, and far too much dog. Sirius Black’s presence lingers everywhere—an unwashed, overly dramatic scent that offends my refined sensibilities.
Worse, Hermione is completely oblivious to my suffering, carrying me inside without so much as an apology for dragging me to this dump. I flick my tail, glaring as she deposits me onto the threadbare carpet. She’s already chattering with the others, completely ignoring me. Typical.
As they disappear into the kitchen for their oh-so-secret meeting, I take it upon myself to investigate. After all, if these humans are going to save the wizarding world, someone competent needs to keep an eye on them.
It doesn’t take long for me to discover their so-called “spying device”—a stringy thing they call an Extendable Ear, dangling from the kitchen door. How quaint.
I settle beside it, half-listening to the muffled voices arguing about Voldemort, the Ministry, and some prophecy nonsense. It’s all very dramatic, but honestly, they’re making far too much noise for spies. I stretch out lazily and bat at the Ear. With a satisfying snap, the string tears.
Oops.
The Weasley twins will be furious, but it serves them right for relying on such fragile contraptions. I am the superior spy here, and no toy will outshine me.
While prowling the gloomy corridors, I encounter a curious creature: Kreacher, the house-elf. His muttering catches my attention, a delightful mix of insults aimed at Sirius and complaints about everyone else.
“Filthy half-bloods, traipsing through Mistress’ house…”
Ah, a kindred spirit. I rub against his legs, purring in approval. Startled, he looks down at me, his bulbous eyes widening.
“A proper cat,” he mutters, scratching behind my ears. “Not like that filthy animagus mutt.”
Yes, I like this one. Kreacher and I will get along splendidly.
My next target is the wretched portrait hanging in the hallway. The woman’s shrieking grates on my nerves every time someone walks past. Her voice is as bad as Umbridge’s perfume—a crime against all that is good in the world.
I leap onto the curtain rod and dig my claws into the fabric. With a satisfying rip, the heavy drapes collapse, exposing the woman’s painted fury.
“Mudbloods! Half-breeds! Blood traitors!” she screeches.
The humans come running, Sirius yelling the loudest. “Crookshanks! What are you doing?”
I flick my tail in his direction, utterly unimpressed. He tries to chase me off, but I dart away, leaving the destroyed curtains and Sirius’ rising blood pressure behind.
That night, as Hermione reads and Harry broods, a letter arrives for me. Delivered by a rather terrified-looking owl, it bears Nagini’s scent.
Her message is brief but intriguing: The Dark Lord grows restless. Wormtail is useless, as always. I hear rumors of something stirring—something important. Keep your ears sharp, little spy.
I purr at the compliment. Nagini understands my brilliance far better than these humans ever could.
As the night deepens, I curl up in my favorite spot: Sirius’ armchair, just to spite him. Despite the dust and the chaos of Grimmauld Place, I feel a sense of purpose.
The humans think they’re the only ones fighting this war, but they’re wrong. I, Crookshanks, am at the heart of it all. And with Kreacher, Nagini, and my unrivaled cunning, I will ensure their survival—even if it means shredding a few more curtains along the way.