"In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this."

- Terry Pratchett

Tom glared at Crookshanks. Crookshanks glared back.

"I know what you are," he hissed.

The cat purred smugly.

"What are you going to do about it?" it hissed back.

Tom threw his cup at the wall.

She didn't know, of course. She didn't know that her bloody blasted menace of a cat had one one-hundred-and-twenty-eighth of his soul inside it. She didn't know it had been the fucking Potters' cat.

"It's not that I'm not grateful," he continued in Parseltongue. "I wouldn't even be here without you. I just think it's time to return what's mine."

"She likes me best," the cat taunted. "If you killed me, she'd find out and kill you."

Tom growled. That was probably true. She was a terrifying woman.

Ultimately, it was a conundrum. He was on thin ice with Hermione at the best of times. She'd (somehow) been convinced that, as they couldn't charge him with anything legally speaking, and as she did rather fancy him - although it had taken an age to get her to admit that – and he was, well, not exactly indifferent to her, that their "arrangement" (he wasn't allowed to call her his girlfriend) was beneficial to the Wizarding World. It had been her research that had accidentally restored his soul after all.

As long as you're around, he'd said, I don't feel all that murderous.

Quite romantic of him, really, he thought.

But that wasn't the point. The point was that the very last fragment of his otherwise wholly – and very fucking painfully – restored soul was contained in Hermione's ancient ginger cat. His ninth life.

It had provided enough of an anchor to hold the pieces here (he'd worked it out one night after sneak reading her research) rather than them being destroyed or going past limbo or whatever actually happened.

(She'd just been curious, she'd said, curious about where the Potter boy had gone).

Curiousity hadn't, however, killed this damn cat. In theory – in theory – it was immortal and so was he. But he knew now, knew that the sort of immortality he'd gone after was actually not exactly what it said on the tin. You got to come back, yes, but it didn't keep you alive exactly.

He wouldn't be making that mistake again. Besides he'd sworn an oath to Hermione he wouldn't make any more Horcruxes.

Which brought him back to the cat conundrum. If she found out she would be quite cross. He might have to sleep on the sofa. He hated that. But if he tried conjuring a bed or going into the spare room, or anything she got cross. And when she wasn't cross she was quite amazingly wonderful. A revelation in warmth and compassion and vindictiveness and brilliance and –

He'd spent seven decades feeling singular until he'd met her and felt complete.

All but for the tiny piece of him inside the cat.

"If I found a way to extract it without killing you, would that work?"

(After all you could destroy the container of a Horcrux but nothing earthly could destroy a soul. Shred it, separate it, contain it, but never destroy).

The cat yowled.

"If I told her you know she'd want it out," he said, but he was talking to its brush-like tail as it ran very quickly away, knocking over as many things as it could on its way.

Hermione had been quite fond of that lamp. He'd have to try and fix it before she got home. He sighed with frustration.

Fucking cat.

.

.

Eventually, he just told her. She hit the roof, of course.

"TEN YEARS," she told the cat. "TEN YEARS!"

.

.

Unfortunately, restoring his last soul fragment was not without its assorted effects. There was the pain, of course. That was damnable.

And then there was the fish. He'd never especially liked it but now… he got excited when he smelt it. He felt perky. He had the urge to hop up onto the sideboard where Hermione was preparing it and steal little bits while she was cooking.

Just like her revolting Weasley friend did.

And then there was the incident with the mouse. He didn't like to think about that, but Hermione found in unspeakably hilarious.

He'd only started to chase it. It wasn't as though he'd actually, you know, got down on all fours or anything.

And the fucking cat – the cat which should just be a cat, which no longer spoke back to him, the utterly bloody cat had the temerity to look amused.

"No wonder he was clever, although it's odd he had such a hatred for Peter Pettigrew," she said.

Tom felt the eager loathing rise up in his chest at the mention of the rat.

"Cats are… very strong-willed creatures. I suppose the horcrux was affected by that or something," she continued thoughtfully.

You have no idea, he wanted to say.

But he just nodded.

"I always despised him, to be fair," he told her.

"How can you despise someone who's so loyal to you?"

"He wasn't loyal like you were loyal to Potter. Or even like Bella… He was a revolting creature with a mind as lacking in worth as you could imagine."

.

.

She brought him catnip once. She said it was for the cat, but she handed it to him to give to it and he…

He felt ecstatic, his mind roiling like he was flying and he gazed at his beautiful witch, seeing how glorious she was, how good, how worthy of his love.

"I love you," he told her with a suspiciously enormous grin. She dropped the jug she was holding.

"Sorry?"