foudebassan: (Gannet)
[personal profile] foudebassan
For Shiv5468

Prompt: Lumione or threesome, up to you. Crookshanks is feeling jealous and left out; how do they get onto his good side.

PG-13, Lumione, 2000 words, no title.


“AAAAAAAARRGH”

Our story, gentle reader, begins with a blood-curdling, horrifying, climatic scream of agony.

“AAAAHH Merlin help me aaAAAAhAAA get a mediwitch, woman!”

Stories, especially romance stories, seldom do – I am aiming for originality here, have you noticed? Of course, it could be argued that lives usually begin with comparable brawling as some poor female manages to free her uterus from the parasitic little squatter that had previously colonised the place, and that fiction is but the pale reflection of existence. We would draw such metaphorical parallels, have no worry, were it not for fear that anyone should compare the present ficlet to a mewling and puking infant (this ficlet being of course far better).

“I swear I’m dying! Has the beast pulled it out! Merlin! Merlin! Aaaaaah…”

We could of course continue to alternate short, punchy exclamations with deeper metaphysical analysis on the nature of fiction, life, the universe, 42 and all that, but the story, alas, demands further developments. There is thus no alternative but to go straight to the point :-

“I’ll kill it, I will, where is the monster, I’ll, AAAAAH!”

Hermione opened her eyes reluctantly. She was half-way into orgasm, and her husband's sudden contortions had given her high expectations as to the intensity and duration of said orgasm. Having him screaming blue murder, pulling out and reaching for his magical wand with a look that betrayed his twenty-year-long stint as an active Death Eater did, however, put a swift end to any expectations the witch could have had. Her lover was trying to stand up, one hand clasped in a most undignified manner around his testicles.

“Is something amiss, darling?”

“Amiss? Amiss?” Lucius looked like he was one step removed from a regular infarctus. “Your beast tried to snatch off my balls, that’s what’s amiss! Merlin help me, I’ll slaughter the beast! I’ll-“

Hermione frowned. They had been in an unoriginal missionary’s position, naked, above the covers – the evening had been somewhat torrid and they had lost all their clothes in the mad lust-infused dash to the bedroom. At some point, she had closed her eyes, inched her nails into his shoulders to prevent him from even thinking of stopping, and starting screaming things no self-conscious fanfic writer would ever dream of repeating in front a possibly under-aged audience. Crookshanks must’ve sensed the opportunity to investigate the exact consistency and resistance of the twin little balls that must have dangled so enticingly within his view. Well, one could hardly hold it against the little darling, curiosity and a will to research matters further with the help of hands- paws-on research was something he must have picked up from his mistress.

“I’ll hex him, I’ll torture him, I’ll-“ Lucius went on.

“You’ll do no such thing, love. Come over here, I’ll have a look at the damage.”

Lucius rolled over, not letting go of his wand, and she inspected the injured testicle. Injury was something of an exaggeration – Crookshanks had merely grazed the skin. She reached for her own wand and cast the basic spells.

“All clear – shall we resume now?”

“Resume? Resume? When I have escaped emasculation by a mere half-inch?”

“Now, now, don’t sell yourself short – your attributes are a bit larger than that,” Hermione laughed.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” he answered, the native Malfoy haughtiness only slightly impaired by his stance, protectively cupping his balls with his left hand. “No one threatens the receptacle of twelve generations of pure blood and comes out of it alive. I am going to kill the little monster!”

“Four generations,” Hermione said quietly, not laughing any more. “I did my research, you know. And you are most certainly not going to murder poor little Crookshanks.”

Lucius looked as if he were about to shout but stopped himself at the very last minute.

“Are you actually defending that monster?” he asked tightly.

“I am. At least that monster is not a bigot.” She answered, likewise, all thoughts of orgasm gone.

“Very well,- very well,” he said, in the tone of someone whose iron self-control is barely enough to prevent him from committing aggravated felinicide. “But I shall not sleep in the same room as that beast!”

“The couch is all yours”, she replied as she scooped up Crookshanks, in the tone of someone whose equally strong morals are barely enough to prevent her from divorcing on the spot.



*
* *




Three sleepless hours, two trips to the bathroom mirror to check that his privates were indeed all right and one desperate journey to the bedroom to ask for a second chance (denied), Lucius was reconsidering.

He had made three mistakes.

One, he should never have allowed the furball in the bedroom as it had an annoying tendency to steal pillow-space. Hermione would then wake up to make cooing noises at it instead of lavishing on her husband all the attention he deserved. Well, that mistake could be put down to lust – to Hermione unclasping her bra right in the middle of the staircase – well, enough said on that matter.

Two, he shouldn’t have born the pain in such a manly, emotionless manner. Witches always fell in the wounded-wizard-needs-help trap. If he’d played his cards right, his quasi-life-threatening injuries would be kissed better by an adoring wife right now… And instead, he was alone, on the bleeding couch, while the damned cat slept in his bed, with his witch.

And that, he thought to himself, teeth clenched, brought him to number three. He should have known better than mention blood. That was The taboo subject – worse than House-Elves, even.

He stood up. Life with Hermione had taught him many life-saving reflexes, and the first of them was to make a list whenever in doubt. He walked to her desk, fumbled at the drawers and found the unlocked one where she kept the paper. He sat down, reached for a quill – she kept them nice and trim, how very… Hermione-like – and started writing.

Steps to reconcile with Hermione:

1. Buy her chocolate.

2. Buy her a new pair of shoes.


#2 was a wild shot, but it might just work.

3. Offer to do the ironing in person.

The paid Elf would do it better than him, but it wouldn’t hurt to offer.

4. Tell her I botched the ironing of her dress robes, and gently divest her of every stitch with the professed aim of rectifying the mistake

That one could not fail. She had gone on and on, back when they had first met, about how former Death Eaters ought to repair the harm they had done. Depriving him of any opportunity to repent would go against her philosophy of life, surely.

5. Once she is naked, apologise profusely. Undress self to show her the invisible scar. Make gentle, make-up love as a prelude to proper catching up with marital duties.

There, that made for a viable plan, didn’t it.

Now, on to more important matters.

How to make the flea-bag pay for threatening a Malfoy’s physical integrity

Murder did spring to mind first thing, but Hermione was bound to launch a crime scene investigation, and frankly, after tonight’s little episode, he’d be the prime suspect. No, he had to go for something a little more subtle…

Incapacitating poisons

If he invited Severus around right before the dirty deed… But no, the Potions Master was bound to co-operate with his wife – people tended to do that, somehow – and between the two of them they’d find out what poison, what brewer, what buyer, and end up with irrefutable proof of his guilt.

Incapacitating hexes

But that would put him at the mercy of a prior incantatem. Bugger.

Blackmail

Now that would be something any Malfoy would approve of – as a matter of fact, that was how they’d gone from four to twelve generations of pure blood within a few short decades – but employing such tactics on a mere Kneazle did have its drawbacks. Lack of communication, for one.

Lucius crumbled down the parchment and cast incendio. He was getting nowhere.



How to keep the flea-bag out of the picture

Now that was a better working basis. It left more options open, to begin with.

Have him neutered

Promising. Very promising. He could even volunteer to do it himself… But Hermione might notice something akin to a dark glint in the corner of his eye and accuse him – without anything resembling proof, mind you – of wanting to practise some of the lesser-known Death Eater curses. She’d be right, of course, but feeling transparent was more than a little insulting.

No, that was the wrong tactic. He needed to:-

a) distract Hermione’s attention and
b) keep the blasted Kneazle out of the way for good and without having her investigating the matter


Fat chance. She had a disgusting obsession with the beast’s well-being, insisting on feeding him on a daily basis, for instance. So, scratch that – he needed to keep the animal away with a stratagem even she would approve of.

Over-feed it?

If its belly grew too large, he’d be unable to bounce up on the bed again?

Give it too much water?

The little monster was male too, and ageing too – surely it ought to have a prostate too? If it needed to constantly get up for a pee, that might turn him off playing with people's testicles...

Lucius stopped writing with a start. Was that what Hermione liked in the animal? Crookshanks was like a feline version of himself. Not in his prime any more – no, let’s say “full of experience”, that sounds better – possessive as hell, oftentimes annoying, of ancient yet not quite entirely pure magical blood…

The realisation struck an inner nerve. Malfoys did have their pride, and being rated like a mere animal – nay, under it, even the animal got to sleep in her bed – did count as a slight.

But he was married to her, and it was not! He thought, vindicated. Well, it couldn’t marry, really, it was only a beast-

Aha. He was on to something there.

If Crookshanks got his own wife, surely he’d quit monopolising his.

The scheme was brilliant in its limpid simplicity.

He took a brand new sheet of parchment and inscribed solemnly, in capital Gothic letters:-



PLAN TO GET RID OF THE BEAST AND WIN HERMIONE BACK

Buy younger, frizzy-furred female Kneazle





*
* *





Crookshanks never quite understood how Cornelia had arrived in the household. One moment, he was enjoying the quiet, muted pleasures of early retirement against the breast of his favourite human when the other human – the one with the dangly, furry balls – arrived with a basket. He showed its contents to the tin-opener, who cooed something about “being such a sensitive human being under that rough exterior”, with laughter in her voice, and then… then… the most beautiful, perfect cat emerged from the basket.

“Mrraowr,” he stammered, unable to greet her properly despite years of gentle breeding.

“Meow,” she answered coyly. “I don’t want to stay with the humans – they’re animals too, you know, they need some privacy. Do you know I’ve have founded a society for the protection of tin-openers world-wide?”

What nonsense, Crookshanks thought. Why, Kneazles would starve without their family tin-openers! And it’s not like he mistreated his, he was sure they were happy to be in his care. Look at them now, they were rubbing each other’s face and making gurgly noises, wasn’t that a sign of contentment?

But I am sure you agree with Crookshanks – sometimes, political considerations have to be bypassed in favour of seduction.

“To protect tin-openers, really?” he answered. “What a fascinating topic… would you care to discuss it over some smoked salmon?”

Cornelia batted her eyelashes, hoping he had plans for after dinner – she had nothing against shagging on the first date, and she did have a certain something for elder cats, but you never knew with these traditional, respectable types. “I’d love to, Mister…?”

“Crookshanks – do call me Crooks – it is along this way…”


They disappeared, never to be seen again in the master bedroom. Truth be told, they seldom even left the king-sized cat bed for several weeks in a row…



And so, gentle reader, did they all live happily ever after. Or at least, until the youngest member of the Kneazles’ litter began to take an unseemly interest in the master of the house… but that, as I am sure you will agree, is another story.







Coming soon: the Drarry vs. threesome, then the card game, then London to NY, then the LW crossover, depending on the whim of the moment.
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