Mondays meant many things to Harry Potter, Wizarding Saviour, Boy-Who-Lived, He-Who-Triumphed, and Witches Weekly's most eligible bachelor. As a young boy they seemed to vary in quality at the drop of a hat – how was Uncle Vernon feeling about going to work that morning? What measure on the Richter scale was Dudley's routine tantrum? Had he burnt breakfast? When suffering through adolescence they meant the end of a weekend and the start if the school week (which, by a lucky coincidence, began with a free period during his seventh year, thank you Headmistress McGonagall). During the war the days of the week were unimportant, and time during the aftermath was dictated solely by meetings, conferences, burials and frantic hunts for the remaining rogue Death Eaters.

However, as an adult in a remote and heavily warded corner of the Welsh countryside, Mondays meant warm coffee with as much sugar as he pleased, a triple-decker bacon and lettuce sandwich on fresh bakery bread, and a freeing, exhilarating flight over the expansive patchwork of fields that surrounded his home. It was a wind down, a way to recover from the bi-weekly convergence at the Weasley-Granger household to pander to three god-children – and any other spawn belonging to the Weasley brood following in the wake of their parents' footsteps.

On this Monday, however, upon entering his broom shed he was confronted by a number of luminescent eyes staring back at him from the dark depths of the magically expanded shed. Years of battle instincts and the occasional call to arms to deal with powerful magical threats had him shifting his stance, wand in one hand and throwing knife in the other. Immediately the blinking, shuffling movements stilled. Carefully, Harry twitched his wand to trigger the soft glow of the orbs placed hazardously across the room.

In the new light it became clear that a number of cats, varying greatly in size and colour, were nestled on the floor in a puddle of pooled fabric – his spare winter cloaks, according to the bare coat pegs above them. Snorting slightly, he re-sheathed the knife and lowered his wand, keeping it loosely held by his fingertips. Taking a step further into the shed he eyed the assortment of felines, and – wow. Just wow. He'd honestly thought he'd seen most of what the wizarding world had to offer.

The largest had to be part kneazle: silky brown hair matted by what looked to be crude, yet symmetrical stitching spanning the entirety of a dark tabby body, with green-pupiled, red-sclera'd eyes that bore him a look of deep mistrust. Beside him lounged a smaller, dappled silver one, with a positively poisonous fuchsia glare. Three of the most abnormal looking ones were grouped together nearby: one split black and white almost perfectly down the middle, with a conspicuous tuft of emerald at its crown; another shaded an off-blue, with darker marks beneath its golden eyes and spread across its limbs; and the last looked as if he'd rolled its entire body in coal, letting only the orange fur of its face shine through, making his one dark grey eye all the more obvious.

Two of the cats were dark shadows; however the golden-eye one was clearly banished to the cloak-less corner of floor by the rest of the group, while the other, slate eyed, resided beside the blue one. Another two were differing shades of red – one darker with a white belly and lilac eyes, another lighter with dull brown ones, white socks and a ringed tail – while there sat a single ginger with eyes the colour of dried dirt. This one seemed caged in, protected almost, by the darker auburn cat and the navy, nearly purple one (golden eyes – why were they so common? – with a smear of white by its ear). The final, and second only to the lighter red in terms of smallness, stood a blue eyed feline with what appeared to be tufty, but undeniably luxurious-looking pale golden fur.

Their behaviour – tense, far too watchful and intelligent – proved to Harry very quickly that, no, these weren't normal cats. Not by a longshot. The irregular appearances were clue enough, though generally less telling when one was fully immersed in wizarding culture. However, each of them looked miserable and near-starved – and when has Harry Potter ever been able to resist coming to the rescue?

Stepping closer he watched each of them tense another degree, and reaching behind him to close the door only furthered that reaction. With near glacial speed, he removed his cloak and draped it over his chair, before making a show of removing his knife and placing it on the work desk. A dozen mistrustful eyes watched his movements, narrowing as he grabbed a decorative bowl from a bookshelf.

Stopping a few feet away from the cluster, whose members had slowly risen and taken steps nearer each other, he knelt before them. They eyed him warily, eyes trained on the wand he now pointed at the carved bowl.

"Scourgify," dust was immediately scoured from the bowl as he calmly assessed the slight flinches he received from his audience. "Agumentae." A thin stream of water poured cleanly from want-tip to bowl, and a number of the group jerked, crouching low as they watched the spell's progression. Once full, he pushed the bowl forward before slipping into a more comfortable cross-legged position.

When a full minute passed with no movement he rolled his eyes, leaning forwards enough to cup his hands in the water. Ignoring the way the group shifted slightly he brought a handful of water to his lips, uncaring of the drip on the wooded floor. His actions, at least, got more of a reaction than tense shuffling.

Communication seemed to occur between the twelve, before the silver one was shouldered forward. Harry raised an eyebrow, a smirk etching the corner of his lips as the feline sacrifice snarled back at the group before lapping greedily at the water. Once finished he sat beside the bowl, sending an almost triumphant look at them. After him a black one was sent forward, the outcast, and once it became clear that, no, the water wasn't poisoned, a sudden, wildly disorganised scrum occurred for who got the bowl first.

It wasn't until Harry got up to fetch another decorative bowl – this one smaller, as part of the set of three – and set a fresh pool of water before the five that elected to stay behind in the cloak, that he even considered what he would do with them. Placing the water by the nest – and the slinky black, both auburns, the navy, and the ginger by association – he eyed the herd critically.

It was very inadvisable that he keep them – they certainly weren't mundane, and had a higher probability of being animagi than anything – but, in all honesty, he wanted to. Hedwig was still a scabbing wound, and they all looked rather pathetic – dusty with dried dirt and matted from several rainfalls. How could he turn them away?

As it turned out, getting a herd of cats out of his broom shed was much easier that trying to get them into his house.

Once they were finished lapping at their bowls he got to his feet, crossing to open the door. The gesture caused them to share glances, before deferring to those gathered in the cloak – or rather, the ginger, the dark red and the navy ones. One by one they slunk from the room and out onto the still dewy grass, grumbling and almost forlorn.

The problems began as soon as each of them was gathered in the garden, milling by the decorative fountain at the centre. As soon as they were assembled the group began to retreat into the tree line, which, okay no. Just no. Having already resolved himself to keeping them for at least the time being, this would have to be put to a stop.

"And where do you think you're going?" the call had the entire herd freezing, twitching eyes and ears pointing at the short wizard and his raised eyebrow. When there was no further movement Harry rolled his eyes, stepping nearer before crouching to their level once more. "I don't generally make a habit of leaving things alone – Hermione calls it my 'saving-people-thing,' and I imagine it extends to animals if past experience has anything to say." They'd taken on formation once again, ringing the ginger tabby.

Having left his cloak in the broom shed the seat of his jeans became damp as soon as he sat on the ground, but the cats, at least some of them, elected to seat themselves too. He arched a brow at the continued silence, having expected something more than their blank, assessing stares. "Look," he sighed, "it's more than obvious that you aren't normal cats – and honestly I'd bet a good chunk of my fortune on none of you being an average magical creature either." Several ears perked at this, the scarred tabby in particular, "To be blatant, you all look bloody miserable – you're dusty and dirty and if earlier was anything to go by, you haven't had a decent meal in ages. Let me at least give you somewhere warm to stay for a little while. Whatever your situation might be, I'm honestly happy to help – be it a quick place to stay, trying to find owners, or whatever magical cats might end up needing."

The cats, however, seemed less than thrilled at the prospect. Glances were shared and looks were had, and Harry Potter, Man-Who-Triumphed, Dark-Lord-Slayer, stood in his back garden as a herd of cats held a conference in meows and hisses before him.

Maybe they're suspicious? he wondered, It is pretty suspect that the guy who's shed they were camping out in is perfectly happy to help them out. And so, as he waited out the discussion, he though over ways to at least try and prove that he was an innocent bystander – for once.

"Look," he started, lips twitching as every head swung towards him almost uniformly, "I don't imagine there's much I can do to prove I'm not going to do something diabolical, but, honestly, you look pretty pathetic." A number of them twitched at his assessment, "No offence, but you lot don't seem to be doing great in the survival department at the moment. You can either risk wandering off and probably being eaten by a herd of Thestrals, or you can risk trusting in a stranger."

For a moment there's silence, unbroken by either party. When no answer is forthcoming he shrugged, before levering himself to his feet, "I'll leave the door open for you if you change your minds. But if you decide on leaving, I really wouldn't suggest the woods – there's all sorts running around in there." Ignoring the fact that all that his home was surrounded by miles of woodland, he turned on his heel, flight forgotten as he left behind a herd of conferring cats.

I'm pretty bogged down with A-Level coursework and prep at the moment, so updates will be entirely dependant on my work load, but I'll try my best to keep it going relatively regularly. I've also cross posted this on AO3, under the same handle.