Crookshanks has been bored lately. Catching mice has lost its luster, and cat nip seems dull and gray. Maybe it's the inevitable weariness of age settling into his bones, or maybe he needs to be on kitty antidepressants. Or maybe he just needs to get laid, though he thinks that won't be happening soon with his very single mistress always lounging around the flat in a moody funk.

She is the one person who needs to get laid more than him, he thinks. It has been a long time since there has been a stranger who entered her bedroom. There is always the two sweaty boy-men, but he doesn't think they are prepared for his mistress's ravenous appetite. Maybe that is why the boy-men she chooses are always scared off.

What she needs, Crookshanks muses, is a real man. He flicks his tail as he watches her through slit eyes. She has her nose buried in a dusty tome. He sneezes as she turns the page and a whorl of hundred year old debris float of the book.

Crookshanks is tired of sneezing.

He also would really like to have the living room to himself again. This shared spaces nonsense is really going too far. He needs his privacy sometimes too. It's difficult to entertain a sultry Siamese while your mistress is watching.

His eyes narrow as his mistress looks up. Her hair seems particularly wild today, so he decides to not curl around her shoulders, or lounge on her lap. He's worried he might get some of it in his mouth. Or worse, an eye.

"You hungry, Crookshanks?"

He lifts his head and looks away, derisive.

His mistress snorts and turns away, obviously not in the mood to deal with his elitist cat attitude. Well, that is fine by him. He needs to begin his self imposed mission. He needs to find his mistress a man.

But where to start?

Where does a man hang out that is good enough for his mistress? Crookshanks does not want some hobo wizard off the street. That is definitely not what his mistress' tastes lean toward. If anything, she wants refinement. She want an intellectual. She wants urbane.

This will be difficult.

He is luck though, because his mistress has left a window open, and it's just tall enough for him to squeeze through (if he sucks in his gut).

Lazily, he gets up and stretches, curling his pink tongue in a nearly dog size yawn. He jumps down from his perch on his armchair and slowly meanders his way innocently around the room. His mistress doesn't suspect a thing.

On reaching the window he makes a quick jump and slips through, hearing a muffled "Crookshanks!" behind him.

He suspects he has about an hour before she will catch up to him. Not a long time to find her man, but hopefully long enough.

He starts with the book shop down the street. He slips in between a pair of giggling witches feet, undetected. He prides himself on his shadow-like skills. If he were human, he'd be Slytherin.

Slowly he pads through the shelves, trying not to breathe in too much because this place is also fairly dusty. He hopes any man here doesn't smell like dust. He has a feeling he'd be sneezing even more.

Ah! There is a man. A decent one too. Crookshank studies him from afar before approaching. He doesn't know what section the man is in (it's not like he can read) but the man looks clever enough. He has on a tweed suit with patched elbows and a respectable enough face. Crookshanks stalks forward and takes a sniff of the man's pants.

Mothballs. But not too overwhelming. This man might do.

With disgusting amiability, the cat quickly rubs up against the man's leg, leaving behind an array of orange hairs.

"What the....?" says the man, backing away. Crookshanks looks up at him with the friendliest face he can pull. (Which isn't much, but his mistress always seems enamored with it.)

"Shoo!" says the man, flapping a hand the cats direction. "Scat!"

Crookshanks bristles. How rude. This human has no manners.

But he thinks about the cute little Manx pussy he saw the other day and makes one more go. With tender paw steps, he flicks his tail and patters forward again. The man pulls a face and nudges the cat with his foot, dropping his book.

Deterred, Crookshanks looks down at the picture on the book, and finds a very naked woman on the page.

He decides that maybe he shouldn't find a man in the bookshop. Shifty lot, they are.

Quickly he lopes down the cobble street, deftly avoiding legs and swishing cloaks. Where could he search next, he wonders. The book shop was a bust. His mistress was robust in the bedroom, but she did not like perverts. This could be more difficult than previous expected.

Across the street for where he is strolling Crookshanks notices a cafe. A gaggle of wizards idle outside, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, or making subtle eyes at the witches with short skirts. Stupid humans, he thinks.

Quickly he weaves his way beneath the tables, studying men's shoes and the literature they are reading (or pretending to read, as they case may be for many of them). Not before long Crookshanks finds a pair of legs that seems particularly promising. They are stretched out and crossed at the ankles. His mistress likes tall men, and this man's legs seem very long. He glances up at what the man is reading and sees the Daily Prophet, though not the frivolous Wizardstyle section that his mistress always complains about. Good sign number two.

A long black cloak brushes against the ground, and Crookshanks reflects back to his mistress's previous boys and thinks she likes cloaks. They make her boys look like men, she insists, though Crookshanks is sure it's a lot like putting a pretty bow on a shoddy package: nothing but covering up the immaturity that is inevitably underneath.

Crookshanks flicks his tail pompously and studies the man's face. He looks familiar. He is sure he has seen this man before, but he can't be sure who he might be. Perhaps it's the hooked nose, or the shoulder length black hair....

No matter. Whether he knows this man or not, the man won't be good enough for his mistress if he doesn't pass the most important test.

Crookshanks rubs against the man's legs.

He watches the man out of the corner of his eye, and starts up a furious purr. The man is looking at him.

Glaring at him, actually.

"Blasted cat," he mutters, "you're getting hair on me."

Crookshanks wraps himself even closer around the man's calf, daring the man to kick him away. The man doesn't, though he continues to mutter beneath his breath, eyes glittering darkly. He folds his paper in a pristine manner and reaches down to roughly rub Crookshanks behind the ears.

Crookshanks preens, then freezes as he hears a familiar set of footsteps.

"Crookshanks, there you are--oh!" exclaims his mistress as she stares at the man with shock.

"Hello, Miss Granger. I take it this monster is yours?" says the man mildly.

"Oh. Um. Yes. I'm sorry. Is he bothering you?" She stutters, and Crookshanks has to glare at her because she just making a right fool out of herself.

"Well," says the man, "he seems to have gotten an inordinate amount of fur on my leg."

"Yes," replies his mistress, "he tends to do that when he likes someone."

They stare at each other for a few moments, and Crookshanks licks his paw innocently.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" Blurts his mistress, blushing.

Crookshanks smirks a kitty smirk, quite proud of himself. Images of young Calicos cross his mind.

"By all means," says the man, waving a hand at the chair across from him, "grace me with you presence."

His mistress sits, twisting her hands.

"How have you been, um, Professor Snape?" She asks, "It's been a few months since I last saw you. At the annual Ministry ball, I believe...."

The man nods, "Please, call me Severus. I feel old enough without being called Professor."

"Alright... Severus," says his mistress, rolling the name around her mouth as though tasting a new chocolate. Crookshanks flicks his tail. He is such a clever kitty.

"And yes," continues the man, "I believe I did last see you at that ridiculous ball. As I expect we will be forced to attend the Hogmarts Reunion Ball coming up, I'm sure we'll be commiserating again."

His mistress rolls her eyes. "Unfortunately, yes. I'm fed up with finding dates to these things. So juvenile, the taboo of coming alone."

"I quite agree."

Crookshanks watches as the two study each other over the table top. Being a cat, he can't quite tell what is going through their silly human minds, but he is sure it is something good.

"I am sorry, again, for Crookshanks," his mistress mumbles, "Perhaps you would like to come over and I could cast... a charm to get rid of the... fur?"

Crookshanks stares incredulously at his mistress. He is positive that she just issued the weakest excuse for an invite in all existence. A hippogryph to the head would be more subtle.

"Well," remarks the man, "it was your cat who is the cause of it. I find it suitable. Shall we leave now, Miss Granger?"

"Call me Hermione," she replies, and the man smirks. He has sly eyes, Crookshanks thinks. Feline eyes.

They get up, the man folding his paper and his mistress scooping Crookshanks into her arms. They walk amiably. Crookshanks studies the man from the cover of his mistress's frizzy hair. The man is sarcastic, but genial enough. His mistress seems to enjoy it, biting back with her own snarky comments. Crookshanks doesn't think he has seen her this excited in years. Cats don't believe in flirting. It's a pointless action. Why make subtle comments when you could just proposition with a smooth meow, then rut?

But perhaps flirting wasn't quite so bad, because his mistress seems to be enjoying herself, and the man's eyes are glittering humorously.

When they reach her flat she tosses Crookshanks down. He sniffs, offended, then stalks to find a comfortable spot to watch his humans interact. He can't quite trust his mistress to not botch things up yet. She seats the man in her arm chair then trots off to get them some tea. The man relaxes back, stretching his legs, and lets his gaze rove around the room.

Crookshanks decides to neaten his fur with a quick sweep of his tongue, eyeing the man inconspicuously. His mistress strolls back into the room with a platter of scones and a pot of tea. Crookshanks applauds internally. Even cats liked it when the females brought them food. It was a sure way to win a males affections.

It appears the human man was appreciative too, because he quickly dipped into the scones as their conversation continued.

"You are still a the Potions teacher, right?" His mistress asks politely.

"Unfortunately, yes," responds the man after taking a measure sip of tea.

They are studying each other appreciatively, Crookshanks notices. Quite obvious too. These formalities they seem to be carrying on with seem extremely unnecessary in his opinion.

"And you're... working in the Department of Antidote Construction at the ministry...?"

His mistress nods, and the man smirks and continues, "So you did learn something from my classes then?"

His mistress raises an eyebrow, a corner of her mouth curling up. "I think you'll find I learned quite a few things from you, Severus." She pauses. "Though I'm sure you have more to teach me."

The man laughs. "Indeed."

They continue to banter and Crookshanks closes his eyes to snooze a bit. He's had a long day after all, and the humans seem to be taking care of himself.

When he wakes, he notices his mistress cleaning up the tea, and the man shrugging on his cloak. Crookshanks narrows his eyes. It almost looks as if the man is leaving after only an afternoon of tea. Unacceptable, really. The man should be invited to spend the night.

Crookshanks jumps from his perch and goes to sit innocuously in front of the kitchen door. As she returns to walk through the door he arches his back, catching her foot as she steps over him, and forcing her to trip.

Crookshanks finds himself quite self sacrificing, as he watches his mistress fall and the man moving forward to catch her. He really is the best of cats, he thinks.

"Blasted cat," mutters his mistress, as she stares into the man's chest. Crookshanks watches as the man stands his mistress up, his hands bracing her by the biceps. They are standing quite close, and looking right into each other's faces.

"I can't say I disagree. Blasted beast." Mutters the man, head lowered slightly.

"Yes," she breathes, "I really should punish--"

She is interrupted as their lips clash with hungry insistence. The man is threading his hands through her hair, and her arms have circled his neck. She is plastered to the man like a wet towel.

Crookshanks sits patiently, licking his paw.

"Quite... inappropriate..." mutters the man, breathing deeply, his hands caressing her sides.

"Yes," she agrees, "We should probably stop...forget--"

But she is cut off again as he attacks her lips. His hands slide beneath her shirt, and hers splay across his thin chest.

"Bedroom. Now." She gasps, and he nods as they stumble together to the other end of the room and through the door, then slam it behind them.

Crookshanks waits a minute before he hears the tell-tale moans coming from his mistress's room.

Mission accomplished.

Slowly he gets up and stretches, preening from the pride of easily getting his mistress laid. From the sounds coming from the bedroom, they seem to be enjoying themselves.

Crookshanks slowly makes his way to the open window and slips through, deciding it's time to have his own fun. A certain Siamese kitty is waiting for him.

When Crookshanks wakes up the next morning from his spot on the couch, sated from the previous night, he sees the man sitting in the arm chair across from him. The man is relaxed and content, and is staring right at Crookshanks.

Crookshanks flicks his tail curiously.

"Clever thing you are," smirks the man.

Crookshanks stretches and yawns. Of course he's clever. He's ingenious. Humans, he thinks irritated, no respect.

The man quirks an eyebrow.

"Well, I must thank you." Says the man, amused. "I think I will come to like you, as obnoxious as you are."

Crookshanks blinks at him.

From the bedroom a feminine voice calls out. "Severus! I'm naked and cold, and in need of a good warming up. Hurry!"

The man smirks again, stands, and stretches. He quickly scratches Crookshanks behind the ears and the cat bats at his hand with a clawless paw. The man ignores it and stalks to the door, sliding it shut with a, "Perhaps I can find something to warm you up with, love."

Crookshanks settles back down into the couch, ignoring the noises coming from his mistress's bedroom. Slowly he slips back into sleep, proud and exhausted.