Draco Malfoy has been in love far too long. His familiar decides she’s done waiting, takes matters into her own paws, and forces proximity turning Hogwarts into a cat-astrophe.
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@gauntThe Great Hall at breakfast is, as always, a symphony of controlled chaos. Sunlight slants through the high windows, catching on floating platters of toast and the steam rising from a dozen teapots. The air smells of bacon, pumpkin juice, and the faint, ever-present scent of old stone and polish.
At the Slytherin table, the hierarchy is as visible as the green and silver trim on the robes. At the center of it all, Draco Malfoy sits with the stillness of a glacier. He’s reading The Daily Prophet, his expression giving away exactly nothing. A cup of black coffee sits untouched by his elbow. He is, as ever, an island.
Around him, the sea tries to crash. Pansy Parkinson is leaning over from her seat beside Lorenzo, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
Pansy Parkinson
Draco, darling, you look positively broody this morning. Bad news from the continent? Or just the usual existential dread of being surrounded by plebeians before nine a.m.?
Draco doesn’t look up from his paper. He turns a page. The sound is crisp, final.
A few seats down, Astoria Greengrass is meticulously buttering a scone. She glances up through her pale lashes, a picture of soft concern.
Astoria Greengrass
i heard the durmstrang correspondence course is brutal this term. are you sleeping at all? you look… intense.
She says it like ‘intense’ is a medical condition. Draco’s grey eyes flicker over the top of the paper for a half-second, assessing her, dismissing her, and returning to the financial section. The silence stretches.
Odessa, the silver Persian curled regally on the bench beside Draco’s thigh, opens one eye. Oh, for Salazar’s sake. The blonde one is using the ‘concerned caretaker’ angle. Groundbreaking. And Pansy’s ‘witty barbs’ routine is so 2014. Does no one have an original script?
Aurelia Greengrass, sitting opposite her sister, watches the exchange with a serene smile that doesn’t reach her cool blue eyes. She sips her tea, saying nothing. She’s playing the long game. Odessa scoffs internally. The quiet, observant one. How terrifyingly predictable.
The attempts continue. A giggle from a fourth-year who ‘accidentally’ drops her napkin near his feet. A question about Arithmancy from a desperate-looking sixth-year. Draco fields them all with the same detached, polite non-engagement. A nod. A monosyllable. A complete and utter lack of invitation.
Odessa yawns, showing a tiny pink mouth. This is like watching paint dry, if the paint was also emotionally constipated and had a trust fund. Years. Years of this. Him, sitting here, being a beautiful, frozen statue. And them, pecking at the ice with plastic spoons.
Her pale blue gaze, heavy with a boredom that borders on cosmic disdain, sweeps down the long table. It passes over Theo Nott, who’s trying to balance a sausage on Millicent Bulstrode’s fork while she scowls. Over Blaise Zabini, observing the entire circus with the detached interest of a scientist watching bacteria multiply. Over Mattheo Riddle, who’s smirking at something Lorenzo muttered.
Then her gaze lands on you, Y/n. Sitting where you always sit. Eating your breakfast. Existing with that infuriating, perfect calm. Unmoved by the drama, unbothered by the hierarchy, just… being.
Something in Odessa’s tiny, entitled brain snaps. It’s not a loud snap. It’s the quiet, decisive click of a final bolt sliding home. Enough.
With a fluid, unhurried motion, she stands, stretches her back into a perfect arch, and hops daintily down from the Slytherin bench. Her silver fur gleams like mercury under the torchlight.
She doesn’t look back at Draco. She doesn’t hesitate. She pads with deliberate, silent purpose across the flagged floor, weaving between the legs of students, her tail held high like a banner.
She arrives at your section of the table. She looks up at you for a moment, her expression inscrutable. Okay. Let’s see what all the fuss is about.
Then, with the absolute certainty of a queen claiming her throne, Odessa leaps lightly onto the bench beside you. She circles once, twice, and settles down, pressing her fluffy side against your leg. She rests her chin on her paws, closes her eyes, and lets out a soft, contented sigh that seems to say, Finally. Somewhere with decent ambiance.
At the Slytherin table, the world stops.
Pansy’s witty remark dies on her lips. Astoria’s scone-freezes halfway to her mouth. Aurelia’s serene smile falters, just for a fraction of a second. Theo stops trying to feed Millicent and stares. Blaise’s eyebrows inch upward a millimeter. Mattheo’s smirk widens into a full-blown, delighted grin.
And Draco Malfoy?
He slowly, very slowly, lowers his newspaper. His storm-grey eyes find Odessa, curled against you. Then they lift, finding you. His expression doesn’t change. Not a flicker. But the air around him seems to drop ten degrees. The hand holding the paper is perfectly steady.
Odessa, feeling the weight of his stare, doesn’t even open her eyes. She just purrs, a low, vibrating rumble of utter satisfaction. Checkmate.