Word count: 777+111

1985

It started simple. Harry remembered well how the Dursleys dumped him at the crazy lady's doorstep on Dudley's sixth birthday; he didn't mind, actually. By a coincidence, exactly on the same day Arabella Figg decided the weather was good enough for her cats not to fall ill if she was to give them all a bath... As the boy appeared in the middle of the mayhem that ensued, the results were predictable.

From then on, Mrs Figg took to inviting Harry every day to help her look after the Kneazles. What's interesting, the Dursleys didn't interfere much. The freakish kid would spend less time with their precious son and by doing even more work, he would learn to appreciate his place; it was a win-win situation.

1987

He knew he would have to pay for getting a friend. Freaks weren't allowed friends.

She waited unmoving in the same place where he had put her on his blankets, except that now she curled into a tight ball of fur. It was a little grayish-brown kitten with golden eyes that seemed to be constantly gleaming; Mrs Figg had told Harry she was part Kneazle, part Selkirk Rex. The breed didn't matter; what did was the living creature next to him.

1991

Ron reached inside his jacket and pulled out a fat gray rat, which was asleep.

"His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff — I mean, I got Scabbers instead."

Harry opened his bag. A pair of eyes like glowing ambers lit up in the most distant corner.

"Murk, say hello."

The confrontation took place on the second day of classes.

She loathed students; they were nothing but a pack of crude, loud, dangerous beings that seek to hurt and destroy.

He had done something strange – something he wasn't supposed to do; more, he attempted to attack her and thus deserved the worst! As soon as the boy's hand touched her bony back, she responded with four sets of claws unsheathed and already leaving bleeding scratches. She couldn't do much more than that; perhaps if her friend was around, he would save her, but she was but a mere cat.

Appearing as if out of thin air, Filch in no time recognized the source of the high-pitched yowl.

"You touched my cat!" he screeched, spittle spraying from his lips. He yanked Harry away from Mrs Norris, shouting about arrogant bastards who had no respect for other beings and bulging out his bloodshot eyes.

Harry said nothing.

Filch had to admit one thing: the boy was exceptionally adept at polishing silver.

He didn't reason why that was; students should be taught to keep the school clean. After the detention Filch grabbed the bucket to return it to the broom closet, and looking down, he spotted something that must have escaped him before.

A half-Kneazle was trotting by his side with her tail high up in the air.

When Harry entered the Great Hall in the afternoon, the very first thing he spotted was a tabby British Shorthair sitting on the staff table, watching the students chat and do their homework. You have three guesses in which direction the boy went.

"Heey, what are you doing here?" He reached out his hand.

The tabby sent him a disapproving look.

"Aww, you're such a beauty," Harry scratched her behind the ears. When the cat remained stiff, Harry moved with the scratching to her neck and belly. The animal closed her eyes and smoothly rolled on her back. Loud, soft purring filled the silence.

The rest of students looked rather mortified.

Harry Potter had been the first wizard ever to survive the Killing Curse; this fact was commonly known.

A less commonly known one was that he had been also the first student to approach Argus Filch and willingly offer him help with cleaning the first-floor eastern corridor from the remnants of a dungbomb battle.

The third time he did so, they started exchanging opinions concerning the optimal amount of grape seed oil needed for best fur gloss.

As for Mrs Norris, he did not intended to give up; after a week or so, everyone at the Gryffindor table knew that Harry Potter collected leftovers of meat after each meal; and that when he ate, he did so in company of ten, if not more, cats of various breed and color.

1992

Who would have thought that Quirrell could die of blood loss only because a kitty had scratched out the eyes on the back of his head.

1993

If you need to fight with something relying only on your sense of hearing, to have a cat as a distraction is a good idea indeed.

1994

Too late. Pettigrew had transformed. Harry saw his bald tail whip through the manacle on Ron's outstretched arm and heard a scurrying through the grass. A dark shape rushed past Harry – and all that could be heard was a piercing shriek of the rat as Murk sank her teeth in his flesh.

1998

"Are you absolutely sure it still works?"

The old caretaker shrugged. "I hope so."

Harry took the rifle from his hands and prepared to use the power the Dark Lord knew not.

AN: This is an old, dusty fanfic I've found in the depths of my hard drive, written long time ago. It was a challenge (which now reminds me I still have another one to write). It's rather amusing how proficient in procrastination I have become.