The King has returned
Crookshanks was lounging lazily on the windowsill in the Gryffindor common room, perfectly content to watch the endless drama unfold below him. Of course, he could have been napping. But napping in the sun was beneath him at the moment—there were more pressing matters at hand. Namely, the ongoing fiasco known as the Triwizard Tournament.
Everyone had been abuzz for weeks, talking about the champions, the dragons, and the mysterious events. But to Crookshanks, it was just a lot of noise. The humans never stopped talking, constantly huddling together in groups, their voices rising to a crescendo only to fall back to whispering with a level of secrecy that was almost laughable.
But Crookshanks wasn’t bothered by the chatter. Oh no, he had his own concerns. Mainly, that Hermione had been far too distracted lately, and if there was one thing Crookshanks hated, it was being ignored. He had already demonstrated his superior intellect and prowling skills by uncovering the true nature of the Triwizard Tournament's unfolding drama. (And, in case you were wondering, yes, it did involve a lot of tail-chasing and several unfortunate run-ins with the house-elves.)
Hermione had become quite consumed with the tournament—again, typical human behavior. So focused on the spectacle, Crookshanks thought, flicking his tail with displeasure. "What about me?" he thought dramatically, as if no one could hear his inner monologue. "I, who have provided invaluable assistance with countless homework assignments and ensured a safe environment for all naps!"
But no! All the attention was on Harry Potter—again. Harry Potter and his stupid tournament. Harry Potter and his stupid scar.
Enough.
Hermione had left to attend some event related to the tournament. There was a lot of commotion about dragons, so Crookshanks didn’t bother to ask for specifics. He wasn’t concerned about dragons. Dragons were no more than overgrown cats, really—only less subtle.
No, what concerned Crookshanks was what had happened recently. What happened with Sirius. Sirius Black, the murderer—except, not really. Of course, I knew, Crookshanks thought, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. I knew something was off about that rat.
Crookshanks had, of course, been instrumental in the whole "Sirius Was Innocent" situation. He had helped Hermione figure out what was going on with that scurrying rat—Scabbers, the most treacherous of rats, and definitely one deserving of a more fitting end. But now that the dust had settled and Sirius was... well, free, Crookshanks found himself back to his old nemesis: the humans.
The humans were so dense. If only they had listened to me sooner, he thought with a dramatic sigh. But no, they insist on figuring everything out the hard way.
Now that Sirius was off the hook, the humans had returned to their usual course of loudly celebrating, whispering about dragons, and, of course, completely ignoring me. Crookshanks let out a long, pitiful meow, hoping to catch Hermione’s attention, but to no avail. She was too busy with Harry Potter and his never-ending drama.
Crookshanks was sick of this. I deserve more than this, he thought. I, who have saved the day multiple times, deserve better than the spot of honor on this windowsill. I deserve more treats. I deserve the ultimate human affection. And I will get it.
But how?
A mischievous gleam sparkled in Crookshanks’ eye. He wasn’t entirely without resources. He could always take matters into his own paws...
Crookshanks, with all the grace and stealth of a legendary predator (which he absolutely was), sauntered out of the common room and into the hall. As he passed by a few first-year Gryffindors, he heard whispers about the dragons and the tournament’s latest ridiculous happenings. Pfft, dragons, Crookshanks mused. Not my problem.
But what was his problem? A certain rat still roamed free in the shadows—Scabbers.
"Now where did that vermin go?" Crookshanks muttered to himself. He slinked down the corridors, ears twitching, nose sniffing the air. His instincts told him that something was off. There was a scent in the air. A smell. A smell that meant trouble.
And if there was one thing Crookshanks couldn't abide, it was unfinished business. That rat would pay.