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This cover art is a photo of an original watercolour painting of mine, and I've added the text on top in Canva. If you'd like to see my painting process for this cover, I've uploaded a video here.
There is only so much one can suffer in a lifetime. Multiply your mortal agony by nine and you might—and I do mean might—have an idea of what I’ve had to live through.
First, it was the Potter boy and his constant crises. “He’s coming after me!” “Sirius Black!” “Snape!” “Voldemort!”
We get it, Harry, you’re popular.
Luckily for him, my companion is as brilliant as she is beautiful, and she saved him from each of his admirers on wit alone.
Then it was that bumbling buffoon, Ronald. With his sweaty palms and his poor excuses for compliments. How he ever weaselled his way into her heart, I’ll never know. The sights I was privy to! The smells.
Their liaison demonstrated a rare lapse in judgment for my companion. But humans can’t be perfect, I suppose. Which is why, as everyone knows, the ancient feline goddesses bestowed upon the world an entity capable of changing fates and intertwining destinies, but made the average cat disinterested in the ongoings of man, therefore preventing world domination.
But, luckily for my mistress, I am not just a cat. And I’m anything but average.
I always knew I was destined for greatness. Even as a wee bairn, when I first offered room and board with a dreadfully mundane and mediocre wand-holder, I made it my personal mission to find a more high-quality companion as quickly as possible. I terrorised him until he had no choice but to take me back to Helen at the Magical Menagerie (or Helen’s Hellish Hovel, as I’d call it, which always got a laugh from the Toads.)
I spent my infancy in that cesspool, hissing at unworthy candidates for the better part of a year. “Your time will come,” the other animals would say to me condescendingly, as they prepared to have a pedestrian and unimaginative life with whichever mouth-breather happened to stop by their cage.
No. Not me. I was content waiting.
That was, until I heard a thirteen-year-old girl demanding that Helen show proof that her animals were all legally acquired. When Helen refused to do so, the girl turned on her heel and walked towards the exit, letting Helen know over her shoulder that the next person who walked in would be a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
I scrambled to the door before she could reach it, jumping in front of her at the last second. We locked eyes and, a moment later, she informed Helen that she’d get off with a warning, as long as she followed the Magical Creatures Ethical Sourcing and Welfare Code, and got to take me home.
I had finally found a witch worthy of tying my lives to.
Life as Hermione Granger’s best friend has not been boring. First, it was The War of One Thousand Suns, or whatever war it was that Harry started as an effort to get more attention. Then, it was the doomed love affair between Hermione and Ronald. Doomed, because they had an enemy working from within. For, whatever harm that sewage-slurping Scabbers had up his greasy, repugnant sleeve, when it came to their relationship, they had no greater enemy than me.
“Crookshanks! What’s gotten into you?” she asked, after I mistook his plate for my litter box as they ate their first anniversary dinner.
I did my best to look ashamed, but Ronald wasn’t buying it.
“Your cat hates me,” he said, glaring at me.
“He has a name, Ron.”
“Well, when he doesn’t shit in my potatoes, I’ll call him by his name.”
“Ron!”
Yes, yes, all according to plan…. I skulked behind the couch to rest on my favourite armchair in our new flat, enjoying the beautiful music of my companion defending my honour.
Regrettably, they remained paired for another year after that, despite Hermione’s new high-pressure job. Which was rather impressive, considering not a pair of his shoes remained in its prior condition, I conveniently had night terrors each time he stayed over, and I knocked over an overwhelming majority of his mugs—to the point that if he couldn’t remain holding a cup, he’d forgo the drink completely.
It wasn’t as though I enjoyed creating the barrier between them. I didn’t like that it caused her temporary distress, but she deserved much more than the pattered neglect and selfish tendencies that Ronald Weasley displayed. I would not allow her trauma-bond with that “man” to rob her of the future that she deserved.
And then, all at once, he stopped coming over. She mourned the loss of their relationship for one week and then moved on, more focused than ever on her goals.
Meanwhile, I watched on, victorious.
Please, don't call me a hero. Visionary will do just fine.
Those early days weren’t as peaceful as they should’ve been. Without Ron’s nagging, without Harry’s drama. But at that point, she was no longer fighting other people’s wars, she had started her own.
“It’s systemic corruption, Crooks!” she’d tell me as she paced the floor in our study, papers strewn out over her desk.
I placed myself on the high back of the couch, as close to eye level as I could, so she knew I was listening.
“A government that could fall that easily is no government at all! And yet they baulk at any mention of reform. When I’m Minister…”
And she would be Minister. I knew it. Her coworkers from the Wizengamot Administration office knew it, too. As Hermione began to find cases involving misuse of funds, bribes and backdoor deals with current Wizengamot officers and high-ranking Ministry officials, more sensitive work would happen at our home. And those she trusted would come over after hours to do the “real work,” as she’d call it.
“There’s too much yet to be done and not enough access to do it,” she said to me late one evening, after the last of our guests had left and she was still hunched over her desk. I’d walked by, purring loudly for her to get some sleep.
It did, at least, cause her to pause. She rested her head on her arms and looked sidelong at me, her eyes showing the familiar signs of early exhaustion.
“It will be years before I’m able to make any change at the pace we’re going,” she mumbled. “I just need one ally—one way into the protected circles within the Ministry.”
And then he came.
“An old classmate is stopping by today, Crooks.”
I had just settled down for a pre-dinner nap when she addressed me, wearing her third date outfit.
I turned my head slowly in confusion. She hadn’t worn her first or second date outfits in several months.
“He recently joined my team at work, and I think he’s going to be a turning point for the project,” she hesitated. “You might recognise him. But I’m asking you to go against your instincts and try to be welcoming. Can you do that?”
Go against my instincts?! The very thing that had saved our lives more times than I could count? Had she gone mad?
Apparently, she had, because a few moments later, he showed up at the door.
The boy who taunted her. Who called her those names. Who bullied her and harassed her and cursed her. He stood by when she was being tortured and—
“Draco, hi.”
And now he stood there at the door, perfectly put-together, his eyes wide and nervous as he held out a bouquet of blue hydrangeas.
“Hello, Granger,” he said, awkwardly sticking out his arm. “These are for you.”
She said something I can’t recall, and he laughed, and they made their way to the kitchen, talking about work for ages before my existence was ever even acknowledged.
It wasn’t until I jumped on top of the counter and brushed off a salt shaker that I got so much as a mention.
“Oh!” she said, chuckling. “Draco, this is Crookshanks.”
“Hi, Crookshanks,” he said, smiling at me from where he stood, just a few feet away. I turned and jumped off the counter, settling myself in a corner where I had an unobstructed view of both of them. I made it very clear that no harm would befall my companion…not on my watch.
But no harm ever did.
More colleagues joined them that night, and the discussion was livelier than ever. Over the next several weeks, a shift took place in those group meetings. The mood had turned from one of desperation to one of hope.
And then one day, he showed up alone, thus starting a routine between us that happened so frequently, I coined a phrase for it: The Draconian Dawdle. It began with a nervous, but meticulously dressed Draco Malfoy at our doorstep, always carrying a new bouquet of flowers. My companion would act surprised and excitedly rush off to the kitchen to deposit them into a new vase. All the while, he would hang back with me and chat. His sentiments were rather dull at first. “Lovely day we’re having today, Crookshanks.” or “Get up to any trouble today?”
It annoyed me, having to entertain him. My companion would return to the door eventually, and they’d be off. Meanwhile, I’d spend the entirety of the evening glaring at those flowers while brainstorming a plan to get rid of him.
But then, my mistress would come home. Humming and smiling as she danced around with one of the flowers—light on her feet as she swayed in the dim late-evening glow of the kitchen.
But your future as Minister! I yelled at her one night, moving through her feet to force her to stop dancing and focus.
“Do you want to join me, Crooks?” she asked, bending down to pick me up. I scattered to the far end of the kitchen and sat, scolding her with low-lidded eyes.
She chuckled, which was all the proof I needed that this Draco Malfoy was a horrible influence.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Darling,” she said as she placed the stem back in the vase with the others. “Draco and I do still talk about work. With his help, things are finally moving towards real progress. But also…”
She opened the freezer and pulled out a carton of ice cream. Her legs dangled from where she sat on the counter, and she had a few bites while I watched on, expectantly.
She smiled over her spoon. “I like him, Crooks.”
Human laughter is upsetting. It is loud and harsh and startling, and it grates on my ears and pulls me out of whatever very important train of thought I am currently following. But Hermione Granger’s laugh is a sound that could not agitate even the surliest among us. At that time, I hadn’t noticed how rare the sound of her laughter had been. Until, all at once, it was a daily presence in our home.
The change in her mood was the only thing that kept me from interfering. And it wasn’t just when he was around. She would giggle in her study as she found something written in the margin of her work notes…she would sigh dreamily after receiving an owl…she’d absentmindedly bite her hair while grinning down at her phone.
I begrudgingly had to admit that she seemed happy. And her happiness was the only thing in the world that was capable of wearing away my staunch dislike of the man who had once terrorised her.
“Did you get a haircut, Crookshanks?” he asked me early one Saturday morning during The Draconian Dawdle. He stood at the door in colourful swim trunks.
I had gotten a haircut, so I bestowed upon him the honour of rubbing up against his legs.
“You look very smart,” he said earnestly, leaning down to stroke me.
“Ready to go?” she asked, wearing a large-brimmed hat and carrying a tote bag of snacks.
“Would he like to come?”
It took both my mistress and me several seconds to understand he was talking about me. We made eye contact for a brief moment.
“Would you like to go to the beach today, Darling?”
I soon discovered that “the beach” was a nice way of saying “dirty, sandy, smelly hell-hole with aggressive birds and unruly wind.” But they’d brought a bed for me and placed it under an umbrella, so I wasn’t too uncomfortable as I surveyed my new environment.
An environment, I realised, she never would’ve found herself in had she not met him. On any other Saturday, she would’ve been at home, pacing that familiar path in our study, angry and frustrated about how slowly things were unfolding at work. But she didn't scowl much anymore. Instead...
She glowed from where she stood at the water’s edge, splashing water at him and subsequently running away, laughing loudly when he splashed back.
I’d spent so much time within the confines of our flat that I hadn’t imagined life outside of it. And, while I was content with staying within those walls (never more so than after that beach day), she deserved a life that was full of the good adventures—not only the ones forced upon her by drama-attracting comrades.
And if Draco Malfoy could give that to her, who was I to interfere?
Tiger Lillies.
“Heya, Crooks. Did you see the game the other night? What an upset.”
Peonies.
“My good man, Hermione nailed her pitch today in front of the Wizengamot, you should’ve seen it.”
Roses.
“I’m going to ask her to be my girlfriend tonight. Do you think she’ll say yes?”
Sunflowers.
“I’m meeting her parents tonight, Crooks. Wish me luck.”
Orchids.
“We’re meeting my parents tonight. I’d ask you to wish me luck, but I’m thinking it might be preferable if you were to kill me instead.”
Azaleas.
“Did she tell you how it went? Only Hermione Granger could bring the Malfoys together.”
Tulips.
“I love her, Crookshanks. I’m going to tell her tonight. I just wanted you to know.”
But of course I knew. Those with a drop of my intelligence would’ve known—Ronald Weasley would’ve known.
At that point, I’d spent 13 years with my companion, and she’d lived half of her life with me. I knew her well enough to know that the feeling was decidedly mutual.
When she came back that night, dancing around the flat with a tulip in hand, I didn’t stop her. Instead, I sat in the corner and basked in the glow of Hermione Granger’s happiness.
He moved in shortly after that. We quickly fell into a familiar, easy routine. While I lamented the loss of couch space, I took full advantage of the fact that there were now two people who could give me treats. And, while their communication was typically very clear, I seemed to be their weak spot. When they discovered I was consuming twice the treats recommended on the box, I feared the worst.
“He deserves it, though, wouldn’t you say?”
She smiled at him then—the big, beautiful kind that always caused his face to light up in response.
“He does,” she replied, and kissed him on the cheek. They left the couch and closed their door shortly after that.
I learned the hard way not to follow them in there. So, as I settled into a late afternoon nap on the now-empty couch, belly full of treats, I drifted off knowing this was the life she deserved. The love she deserved.
And then the world fell apart.
“What do you mean, an assignment?”
The house was in chaos. He was putting things in a suitcase, and she was throwing them out. He didn’t look at her when he responded.
“The Minister himself approved this transfer, Hermione,” he said, sounding defeated as he sat down on the bed. “It would be too dangerous for you to be with me now. You know I have very little control over that.”
“Tell them no!” she yelled, her tone full of righteous anger. “You tell him no! You’ve been working in the Wizengamot Administration office for a full year, he can’t force you back to the DMLE.”
“He didn’t force me, I—”
“So you chose to leave? To go undercover for two years?”
The room was quiet for a moment, and I didn’t make a sound as I watched from the doorway.
He looked up at her, his features contorted in pain.
“This past year has been amazing, the best of my lif—”
“Don’t you dare,” she cried, her face red as tears fell down untouched. “Don’t you dare tell me how amazing it was on your way out. I trusted you, Draco, I—”
She stopped and put her head in her hands.
He stood to join her. “Forgive me, Hermione.”
But she backed up and walked towards the door.
“No. I won’t. Now, leave.”
She shut herself in the study while he finished packing. I planted myself directly in the path of the front door. If he wanted to leave, he’d have to go through me.
“Crooks,” he said dejectedly as he approached me, two suitcases in tow.
I sat up as tall as I could and looked straight ahead with hard, cold eyes.
He sighed and leaned down to my level.
“She’ll never become the Minister of Magic with an ex-death eater by her side, Crookshanks.”
Yes, she can! This is Hermione Granger!
“I love her too much to let her forfeit her dreams for me.”
You’re a coward!
“Succeeding in this assignment will go a long way towards public opinion. I thought that if I volunteered for it, she could get what she wanted. And, maybe, after some time…”
I blinked slowly as his voice faded off.
He reached out to stroke me, but I hissed and jumped out of the way.
Another sigh as he stood.
“I’ll miss you, Crooks.”
And I’ll wish for your downfall.
The passage of time was marked only by the advancing decay of the Ranunculus in the kitchen. What started out as a vibrant red flower turned into a dark and dusty shadow of its former self. As did its owner, who moved around the house like a ghost. I offered myself as comfort, but there was only so much I could do.
She didn’t want me. She wanted him.
I began walking slowly past the front door, ear to the door frame as though I’d hear the ruffle of a bouquet on the other side and the sharp intake of a steadying breath.
But with each pass I made that resulted in only silence, my anger grew. It built up to a point that I could barely look at the front door without cursing his name. And yet, I continued to listen. Because I just knew he'd be back.
What a dreadful curse it is to always be right.
Begonias.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was a coward, Hermione. I never should’ve left. I’m sorry.”
“It’s too late.”
Lilacs.
“I told you it was too late.”
“I’m not giving up on us. I’ll keep coming back until you stop opening the door.”
Roses.
“Hear me out, please. What about dinner on Friday night?”
“No.”
Rhododendrons.
“I love you, Hermione. I had convinced myself that leaving was the right thing for you. And maybe it was, but—”
“You don’t get to decide what’s right for me!”
I was sitting in the now familiar spot just out of the door’s reach. After each rejection at her doorstep, she’d taken the flowers and placed them in a vase, just as she had before. But she didn’t dance with these flowers. She sat with them for long periods of time, sometimes carrying them with her from one room to the next.
“You’re right. You’re right, Hermione. I think there’s a part of me that knows I don’t deserve you, and maybe I’ve been afraid of you finding that out.”
Obviously.
“Obviously,” she said. And I looked up at her as she looked at him. Her face had softened marginally.
“Please give me one more chance, and I promise I’ll never do anything so foolish again.”
She took the flowers into her hands and inhaled their scent before exhaling slowly.
“I’m free at 7 on Saturday.”
She closed the door and stroked my head before walking to the kitchen.
Hydrangeas. Roses. Azaleas. Orchids. Queen Anne’s Lace.
She walked into the kitchen with the largest mixed bouquet I’d ever seen, and he bent down—looking even more nervous than he had that first night.
“I owe you an apology, Crookshanks,” he said softly. “And if she takes me back, I vow to you that I’ll never leave again.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Do you think she will?”
But I could hear her humming from the kitchen as she arranged her flowers. A kitchen that had no less than half a dozen varieties scattered around it. In a home that somehow only felt alive when one of his bouquets crossed its threshold.
I ignored my instincts to punish him and walked around his legs, purring loudly.
Yes, I told him. I do.