The Rat Stinks
Settling into Gryffindor Tower was easier than I expected. Humans are creatures of habit, and Hogwarts students were no exception. My new human, Hermione, quickly fell into a routine of books, quills, and far too much stress for someone her age.
As for me? I explored my new domain with the precision of a seasoned tactician. The common room, with its crackling fireplace and plush armchairs, was a fortress of comfort. The dormitories provided ample opportunities for mischief. And the food—oh, the food—was leagues above the slop The Captor used to serve.
But then… there was the rat.
I smelled him before I saw him. A foul, acrid stench that clung to the air like a bad spell. The first time we crossed paths, he was scuttling across the floor, his beady eyes darting nervously. I froze, my fur bristling.
“There you are, Scabbers!” came a voice.
The rat’s human—a tall, gangly boy with hair the color of a particularly angry sunset—scooped him up. I stared at the rat, narrowing my eyes. Something was off about him.
And then it hit me.
He wasn’t just a rat.
He was evil.
Later that evening, I cornered bushy human.
“Do you know what you’ve brought me into?” I demanded, though she only heard a yowl.
“What’s wrong, Crookshanks?” she asked, scratching behind my ears.
I sighed. Humans. Always distracted by the fluff.
She carried me to the common room, where the other two humans—The Ginger and The Hero—were lounging. The rat was there too, curled up in The Ginger’s pocket.
“Keep him away from Scabbers,” The Ginger growled, glaring at me. “He’s been trying to eat him all day!”
Eat him? Please. I have standards.
“He’s not trying to eat him, Ron,” Hermione said with a sigh. “He’s just curious.”
Curious wasn’t the word I’d use. Obsessed, maybe. Consumed by the need for justice. Scabbers smelled of betrayal, of fear, of something far darker than the average rodent.
I leapt onto the armrest of The Ginger’s chair, staring into his pocket. The rat twitched, and for a brief, delicious moment, I imagined sinking my claws into him—not to harm, of course, but to expose his secrets.
The Ginger yelped and shoved me off. “Keep your cat away!”
“Crookshanks, come here,” Hermione said, scooping me up. “He’s just a rat, okay?”
Just a rat? I glared at her, offended. Just a rat? Did they not see the way his beady little eyes gleamed with malice? Could they not smell the deceit wafting off him like stale cheese?
That night, while the humans slept, I made my move.
Stealth was key. I padded silently across the dormitory floor, my eyes locked on the rat’s cage. He was asleep—or pretending to be. I flexed my claws, ready to strike.
And then the cage tipped.
It wasn’t my fault, really. Who designs a cage with such a flimsy base? It clattered to the ground, the door springing open. Scabbers bolted, squealing like the coward he was.
The commotion woke The Ginger, who let out a strangled cry. “SCABBERS!”
He dove for the rat, and I lunged after them both. We collided in a tangle of fur, claws, and blankets, sending books and pillows flying.
“What is going on?!” Hermione shrieked, bursting into the room.
I froze, the rat squirming just out of reach. He darted behind The Ginger, who cradled him protectively.
“Your cat is insane!” The Ginger yelled.
Hermione sighed, scooping me up again. “Crookshanks, really? Leave Scabbers alone.”
As she carried me back to her bed, I glared over her shoulder at the rat. He met my gaze with a smug twitch of his whiskers.
“Oh, it’s war,” I thought.
And war it would be.