CROOKSHANKS THE HALF-KNEAZLE
a character is the subject of a ridiculous headline

100 word drabble installments

Chapter 1:
Crookshanks stretched on a common room sofa, his ears twitching at every sound and eyes fixated on Hermione. Engrossed in a book as she walked, she didn’t notice him slip off the armrest and pad after her out, down the staircases, veer away from her into the courtyard - herself the library. Soon, the crisp winter air of Hogsmeade greeted him as he scampered down the snow covered path.

Freedom.

Crookshanks sashayed towards the village, keen to see what kind of trouble he could get into and, perhaps, what Three Broomsticks scraps he could snatch to fill his tummy with.

Chapter 2:
The shop was bustling with students but Crookshanks didn’t mind. He weaved through legs and over shelves, his amber eyes gleaming with mischief. He leapt onto the top of a shelf hows displays of various quills. With a swift flick of his paw, he batted one off a shelf and watched it flutter to the ground. No one noticed. He padded along, knocking off another, then another until he was certain he could carry no more. With feline precision, he leapt off the shelf and nabbed each in his mouth. Proud of his haul, he slipped out before anyone noticed.

Chapter 3:
Crookshanks trotted back through Hogsmeade with his tail swishing proudly, the stolen goods tucked safely in his mouth. He passed by the students in the streets, their chatter oblivious to his silent misdeeds. The quills - three of which were Luxury eagle-feather ones - bobbed up and down in the chilly air as he sauntered back. When he finally returned to Gryffindor Tower, he slipped into the common room and made his way to Hermione’s lap. She barely looked down as he settled comfortably, purring as though he’d done nothing more than nap the afternoon away.

The perfect thief, undetected.

Chapter 4:
Hermione sat by the fire, flicking through the Daily Prophet while scratching Crookshanks's ears as he curled up contentedly in her lap. The fire crackled, casting a warm glow on their faces. Her eyes landed on a headline: Mystery Plucks Hogsmeade: Shopkeepers Cry Fowl Over Stolen Quills! The article was filled with bewildered statements from shopkeepers and students alike, but no one seemed to have any clue who the burglar had managed in broad daylight. Hermione smiled faintly, her fingers absently scratching Crookshanks under his chin. "Odd," she murmured.

Crookshanks gave a soft purr in response, clearly enjoying the attention.

Chapter 5:
The more Hermione read, the more she was puzzled. The only items were missing were quills... and the thief had left no trace, no sign of their identity. "Hmmmm," Hermione muttered, tapping the paper with her finger, lip pursed. Crookshanks shifted in her lap, his tail flicking lazily, as if to say: I don’t know what you’re talking about. She paused, a thought creeping into her mind. She glanced down at her familiar, then back at the article. Her eyes narrowed just a bit, but Crookshanks seemed utterly oblivious. She sighed, setting the paper aside. "No suspects indeed," she groaned.

HEDWIG THE SNOWY OWL
someone gets "quoted" saying something they absolutely never said

While I always appreciate his company, I am not quite sure why—of all days—Harry has requested that I stay with him in the courtyard today. I've already delivered the post and should be well on my way. But no. Today I must remain the paragon of quiet dignity at his side while he attempts to stroke my feathers with those absurdly trembling gloved hands of his.

If he is so cold on this wintry day, it would do him far more good to return indoors. Then I could go about my business of preening, surveying my domain, and perhaps locating a mouse or two for an early supper.

And then Cho Chang walks past.

Harry inhales like he’s about to dive underwater.

"Your hair—" he says suddenly, at an embarrassing volume. Good gracious, boy, the girl is not deaf. "—is like—"

Hoo no.

"—like spilled ink!"

There is a pause sharp as a hooked talon.

Cho blinks. "Spilled… ink?"

Harry nods, as if verifying his words might somehow make him look less like a bumbling fledgling. "Yeah. Because it’s dark. A-and shiny! And—um—everywhere. But in a good way. Everywhere."

I freeze midpreen and wish, for once, that my eyes were not so painfully efficient as to notice the beads of sweat forming at his brow.

"I mean," he continues, his words tumbling out worse than Errol on Tuesdays, "not everywhere. Just—nicely arranged. Like—"

He gestures helplessly and I somehow manage not to hear how that thought finished.

Cho stares at him and Harry panics further.

"Hedwig came up with that," he blurts.

I turn my head slowly and ruffle my feathers. I beg your pardon?

Cho looks at me, then back to Harry, clearly unconvinced. "She did?"

Harry nods. "She’s very poetic."

I stare at him, feathers ruffling further as I spread my wings into a disapproving shield of white. A warning display, should he choose to recognize it.

He does not.

"She also thinks," Harry adds—because ruin loves company, and despite my now-imposing size he remains determined to ignore me—"that your skin is very nice—uh—lustrous."

Cho raises an eyebrow.

"LIKE," Harry says quickly, "the shine of a Golden Snitch. Not—like metal. Just—clean. And nice. And—fast?"

All three of my eyelids close. Somewhere, a mouse escapes death. I envy it.

Cho presses her lips together, clearly fighting a laugh—perhaps even taking pity on Harry and finding this whole spectacle endearingly ridiculous.

She too is a fool.

"So your owl thinks I look like stationery and Quidditch equipment?"

Harry’s ears turn red to match his cheeks and the tip of his nose. "When you say it like that… it sounds worse."

I hoot, a firm plea for him to stop—or at the very least to have the decency to dismiss me properly so I no longer have to bear witness to this owl-fully bad turn of events.

Harry winces instead. "She says that’s not what she meant."

Partially true. None of what Harry is saying is anything I meant.

Cho laughs now, properly. "Right… well, I think I’d better get going," she says, before continuing across the courtyard.

Harry exhales as though he's the one who just survived a near death experience.

"I think that went okay, don’t you?" he says, smiling and hopelessly delusional.

I simply return to preening. I have nothing to hoot on the matter.

Some thoughts are meant to stay in the roost.

FAWKES THE PHOENIX
someone wildly exaggerates a story about themselves

Snow had a way of making the world honest.

It stripped away pretense with the same efficiency it stripped leaves from branches, leaving only what was sturdy enough (or foolish enough) to remain standing. No matter what, this weather insisted on reducing everything to white, cold, and true.

He supposed it served him right.

Snow did not care that he was clever. It did not pause in admiration of past brilliance, nor did it whisper reassurances that, surely, in spite of the outcome you meant well. Certainly nothing of the sort as it, the snow, settled into the seams of his boots.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the edge of the pinewood, breath fogging the air, toes somewhat numb within wooly socks nestled within thick leather, heart barely a shadow of its former self. A past burned nearly to ash, he had walked until grief grew tired of chasing him—or perhaps it was he who grew tired of running.

Somewhere above, a bird cried... and he followed it.

The bird, a phoenix, perched upon a frost-laced branch with feathers the color of embers banked low. Albus leaned his head back to take in its majesty, sunlight glistening off the edges of its feathers as they regarded him with patient dark eyes... almost as if it had been expecting him...

...or had always known he would arrive precisely when he did.

"Well," Albus smiled, tipping his hat, "this is just a twinge awkward. I don't suppose you speak English?"

The bird tilted its head.

"Marvelous," Albus sighed. "I'll take that as encouragement."

He sat in the snow with his back against a tree, the cold slightly seeping through his tattered coat. Silence of the wintry wood pressed in, the sort that reminded a man of all the voices no longer there now made sharper by the soft creak of branches shifting under their burden of snow and the phoenix's careful gaze. His mother's careful hum. Ariana's laugh. Aberforth’s anger, familiar, alive, and all sharp edges of wounded love. Gellert voice...full of futures that had once seemed so close they could be touched. All gone or far away, and the silence left behind had learned how to hurt intentionally.

The phoenix hopped closer.

"I should warn you," Albus said solemnly, "you are in the presence of a very dangerous wizard."

The phoenix blinked and hopped a little more.

"Yes, yes, I know," he went on. "Hard to tell from the bedraggled hair and tragic posture, but once upon a time I was a terror. Vanquisher of villains. Champion of causes. I once defeated a Hungarian Horntail armed only with a teaspoon, an earwax flavored Bertie Bott, and an especially cutting remark."

The phoenix emitted a soft trill that might have been amusement.

"Ah," Albus nodded. "You have heard of me."

He clasped his gloved hands together. "I am famed for my brilliance. My restraint. My impeccable judgment." He paused. "Particularly that last one. Truly, my choices have been so flawless that they have only ever resulted in minor inconveniences. The destruction of my family and the permanent rearrangement of my soul, for example."

The phoenix's eyes softened. It stepped closer still, feathers glowing faintly against the snow.

"Don't misunderstand," Albus added lightly. "I wasn't always this impressive. There was a time I believed I could fix the world if only I were clever enough, bold enough, important enough. Turns out... that was horrifically naive of me."

He looked away, blinking hard and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

"So now," he concluded, forcing a smile, "I roam forests at Christmastime, regaling legendary birds with tales of my glory. A clear improvement, wouldn't you agree."

The phoenix spread its wings, heat rolled gently through the space between them and melting the frost where Albus sat.

"Well," he murmured in surprise, "that was… quite kind of you." The bird hopped onto Albus' knee. "I'm Albus," he said quietly, all the exaggeration gone. "I don't have much to offer at the moment. You see, I'm very good at making mistakes and rather excellent at being alone."

The phoenix pressed its head beneath his chin and with the gesture, a small fierce heartbeat of warmth.

Albus laughed then, a sound he hadn't made in... Merlin's socks he wasn't sure how long it had been now. "Oh, I see. You're one of those creatures who refuses to be impressed by nonsense and insists on liking the truth. Well," Albus said softly, "in that case… would you care to stay?"

The forest seemed to hold its breath. Then the phoenix sang, a note renewal curling through the cold air, and Albus felt—just for a moment—that life, his choices, had not taken everything after all.

Later he would name the bird Fawkes.

Later there would be towers and troubles and a lifetime of careful watching.

But that night, alone in the winter wood, a lonely man and a fire-born creature kept each other warm. A miracle of Christmas that was neither loud or grand. It was simply this: two lonely beings choosing together to begin again.

ARAGOG THE ACROMANTULA
a character is accused of something absurd and must prove otherwise

Winter had turned Hogwarts into a snow dusted secret with all its towers hushed and glittering under the moon. Hagrid lumbered along the covered walkway with his collar pulled up, scruff pretending it was a beard crusted with frost, and one hand jammed deep into his greatcoat's pocket.

A pocket that kept twitching every so often.

He'd only gone as far as the edge of the Forbidden Forest—juuuuust far enough for some necessary fresh air and stretching of the limbs—and now he was heading back toward the staircases that led to the Gryffindor common room. The castle was quiet in that winter way, which meant that even the portraits' whispers seemed to reverberate off the stone walls.

"Hagrid."

Hagrid jumped as Professor Dippet’s voice drifted from behind a pillar.

"What do you have there, Hagrid?" the Headmaster asked, peering at the bulge in Hagrid's pocket.

"Me?" Hagrid said cheerfully. "Just me pocket, Headmaster, sir."

"That pocket is moving, Hagrid."

"Pockets do that," Hagrid assured, head nodding far more than was necessary. "When there’s wind."

There was no wind indoors, but Headmaster Dippet merely narrowed his eyes and gave a disapproving inclination of the head. "It’s not a kitten, is it?"

Hagrid looked affronted. "Wouldn’ do that to one, Headmaster, sir."

The pocket wriggled again.

Headmaster Dippet raised an eyebrow. "Is it a toad?"

"No, sir."

"A ferret?"

"No."

"A Blast-Ended Skrewt?"

"Don’ even own one but on me list, Headmaster, sir."

Dippet sighed. "See that one stays off your list. You know students are not permitted to smuggle creatures of that sort into the castle."

"I ain’t smuggling no creatures," Hagrid nodded.

Dippet hesitated, then swept on, robes swishing. The moment he was gone Hagrid exhaled and rounded the corner and nearly colliding with a pair of Ravenclaws.

"What’s moving in your coat?" one demanded.

"Looks like a rat again," said the other.

"A rat?" Hagrid said, offended. "Course not."

"A lizard?"

"No."

"A baby dragon?" the first Ravenclaw guessed hopefully.

Hagrid grinned despite himself. "Wouldn’ fit."

They exchanged uneasy glances but, lacking proof, moved on. The pocket tapped twice. A leg—no, several legs—scratched politely.

"Stop that," Hagrid muttered. "Yeh’ll give us away."

At the foot of the stairs, a prefect barred his path, arms crossed.

"Hagrid," she said. "You aren’t carrying anything inappropriate into the castle, are you?"

"N-n-no, 'c-course not," Hagrid stammered.

Her lips thinned. "Is it… a dragon?"

"Goodness, no. But yer the second person to ask me that. A mighty fine compliment, I reckon."

"A Kneazle?"

"Nope."

The prefect studied him for several uncomfortable moments before nodding briskly. "Fine then. Don’t do anything dimwitted. I have a date tonight. I don't want interrupted by the likes of you because you set something loose in the common room again."

"Always am," Hagrid said.

At the foot of the stairs, the pocket chose that moment to give a mighty skitter.

"Oh no yeh don’," Hagrid whispered fiercely, clapping a hand over it. Blessedly, he reached the corridor of Gryffindor Tower… but there was still the Fat Lady to contend with and considering the rat incident of last month, this threshold might be the toughest challenge yet.

The Fat Lady sneered from her portrait, chin lifted as if the very idea of Hagrid offended her sense of decorum. "Password."

"It ain’t no rats, ma’am," Hagrid said immediately, before she could even ask.

Her eyes narrowed. "That is precisely what one says when it IS rats."

Hagrid pressed a hand to his chest. "After all me's been through? Snow up to me ankles, professors askin' questions, prefects starin' holes through me coat… yeh think I'd risk rats again? Me own dorm still smells like peppermint traps."

The pocket gave yet another nervous twitch.

"I am sworn to protect this tower," the Fat Lady said loftily. "From rodents, reptiles, and whatever other creature your fingers manage to entangle themselves with."

Hagrid sagged, every inch the picture of a misunderstood boy―just like the misunderstood friend in his pocket. "I'm cold, I'm tired, an' I've had three staircases change directions on me already. If I were haulin' rats, they'd be squeakin’ louder."

"And you expect me to believe that bulge in your coat pocket is nothing?"

"I be hopin' yeh to believe," Hagrid said solemnly, "that I wouldn't insult yer portrait with somethin' so common."

There was a long pause. The Fat Lady studied him, then scoffed one final time. "Very well," she said at last. "But if I find so much as a tail—"

"Ain't no tails," Hagrid said quickly, stretching the tightest toothiest grin he could manage.

The Fat Lady sighed heavily and then the portrait swung open. Hagrid slipped through immediately, ducking his head and murmuring, "Much obliged, ma'am," as he passed.

The entrance closed behind him and along with it the corridor’s chill and the pocket went still. He once more lumbered, this time through the common room, up the stairs, and didn’t stop until he reached the dim quiet of his dormitory where the warmth creep back into his bones.

There, at last, seated on his bed… Hagrid opened his pocket.

Many eyes blinked up at him as all eight of its legs carefully climbed out and onto Hagrid's gigantic hand.

"There yeh are," Hagrid said fondly. "See? No one even suspects yeh here."

People worry too much. Ain't nothin' wrong with keepin' an Acromantula, long as yeh know what yeh're doin'!

MRS NORRIS THE CAT
someone chases something they absolutely should not chase

Mrs. Norris padded quietly down the corridor, her large yellow eyes gleaming softly in the dim light of Hogwarts’ ancient hallways. The school felt more chaotic now with the heavy scent of pine and faint traces of sugar and cinnamon from the kitchens drifting through the air. Even the portraits were more annoyingly chit chatty as the holidays drew nearer.

Ignoring their gossip as she strut by―her tail flicking behind her, ears perked for any sign of trouble―she continued her evening patrol.

And it didn't take long before something caught her attention: a skittering sound, faint and rapid, like tiny feet dancing across the stone floor. But no mouse would make such a sound. This was something… strange. Something mischievous. Something suspicious.

Her ears twitched, the fur along her back rising slightly.

It was always something suspicious at this hour, or any hour, really. She sniffed the air, catching an odd scent: greasy, metallic, with a faint trace of firework ash. It was unmistakable.

The Weasley twins.

Filch had ranted about their creations enough to make her intimately familiar with their particular brand of chaos. Her whiskers bristled, and a small hiss escaped her as she moved deeper into the corridor, her paws light but quick. She would catch them. If anyone was going to put an end to whatever ridiculous contraption they'd set loose this time, it would be her.

Her claws clicked against the stone as she crept forward, her body coiling and ready to pounce, eyes narrowed, ears flicking with every shift of sound.

Then... there it was.

A small colorful object, round and blinking with flashing lights. It chirped a merry little tune as it darted along the floor in a zigzag pattern that made her tail twitch with irritation and yet she was utterly entranced by it.

Filch had warned her to stay away from their devices... but she wasn't about to let this little thing get away.

She darted forward, her claws outstretched. Missed. It zipped away, taunting her with another flash of color and another chirp. She growled, her fur bristling as her claws scrabbled against the cold stone floor. Faster. Faster. The blur of the device became a streak of light in her vision. She was getting closer... just a little bit closer... then—

The chirping stopped. Her paws froze midstride. Silence.

She blinked, eyes wide as she scanned the empty hallway, her whiskers twitching with growing frustration. The little nuisance had vanished, as if it had melted into thin air. Had the Weasley Twins managed to expand their Daydream contraptions to influence creatures as well?

A sudden crash from behind her broke the stillness, sending her bolting forward, heart racing.

But as she rounded the corner, her paws met something sticky and the world plunged into darkness. One moment, she was chasing her prey with fierce determination and the next she was stuck, unable to free her paws from the strangely spongy stone beneath her. A muffled thud echoed and she realized she had been tricked. Caught. Trapped.

Her claws flexed and she spat and hissed into the darkness.

She could hear Filch’s familiar footsteps in the distance, the sound of his shuffling gait growing louder as he muttered under his breath. She sighed. Even though Filch could be grumpy, she knew he wouldn’t leave her like this.

A moment later, the box (or whatever it was) was lifted, the dim light from the hallway blinding her for a moment. She squinted, waiting for her eyes to adjust, then let out a soft, almost embarrassed mewl as Filch’s scowling face appeared above her. His hands, usually so rough, reached down with surprising tenderness to lift her from the sticky trap.

"Mrs. Norris!" Filch’s voice was low and annoyed, though his eyes softened as he carefully pulled her up against his chest. "What have I told you about chasing those blasted contraptions?"

She wriggled in his arms, still perturbed, but it was hard to stay mad when his rough hand gently stroked her fur.

"You're lucky I found you, or you'd be stuck here all night, giving me even more work." Filch muttered, but there was a flicker of affection in his gruff tone. He set her down gently with a soft thud on the cold stone floor, giving her a quick, gruff pat. "What are you looking at me like that for, huh?"

She blinked up at him, the sharp edge of her demeanor softened as she relaxed, purring contentedly in the warmth of the moment. Filch, scratching behind her ears with a muttered grumble, shook his head. "Alright, alright. We’ll get them next time, Mrs. Norris. Next time."

And she couldn't help but think, as she nuzzled into his hand, that maybe... juuuuuuuust maybe... this wasn't such a bad way to spend the holiday season.