Grey Kittens

A rambling forward from the author:

Grey Kittens is my respite story, something to work on when I need a break from 'Heirs' and wish to let my brain wander different paths. Whereas, 'Heirs' has been mostly mapped out till the end of The Chamber of Secrets; Grey Kittens is freeform and may wander around some with an occasional tangent tossed in for good measure but I pledge to ensure continuity to the best of my ability. I'm promising no update schedules because—like I said—I'm using this story as an amusing diversion and a place to reset my 'Heirs' writing juices when they turn viscous and sticky. Less politics, more humor and more excessive—not to mention—kinky sex is the rule here and not the exception for my little Grey Kittens; the pacing should be quicker too. It is not PWP, I promise; I have a thin plot thread to sew it all together; it's also significantly AU with OOC characters—but there's a reason for it, trust me.

Therefore and without further ado, may I present Grey Kittens.

It's early July after our heros' fifth year and the MoM debacle.

Obligatory blah blah blah:

I do not now, nor have I ever and only will if I'm the last person on Earth (at which point the whole concept of rights, royalties and responsibility, etc. . . becomes moot, to say the least) own Harry Potter or the characters therein, they belong to J. K. Rowling; I'm just playing with them.

Warning:

This story is rated 'M' and intended for mature audiences; it contains coarse language, violence, nudity and/or mature subject matter. It also explores acts of graphic sexuality; including—but not limited to—extreme and/or alternate lifestyles, behaviors and/or choices that may offend some: Reader discretion is strongly advised.

There, you've been warned; now don't send me nasty-grams if I write something smutty, which upsets you. And, on a final note, Animekitty can be a pretty pervy pussykitty and has very few taboos when writing, including chapter lengths.

First Kata—The Cat Came Back

The heavy brooding sky pressed upon the few patrons and merchants that braved the unseasonably cool and damp morning that seemed appropriate for early April; the only thing wrong with this acceptable, although not entirely pleasant, April morn was that it was early July. Inclement weather aside, a young cloaked witch purposely strode the cobbles of Diagon Alley looking for knowledge. She had passed Ollivander's with little more than a glance through the wand-crafter's dirty window knowing that while he could likely answer her questions he wasn't likely to; instead, he'd tell Dumbledore that a young witch was asking questions about things she wasn't supposed to ask questions about. Likewise, and a first for her, she had no intention of stepping into Flourish and Blotts because she knew, better than most of the bookstore's employees even, what was to be found on that shop's shelves and wand-lore was not amongst the tomes and grimoires inhabiting even the most forlorn and dusty corners in the store. With a heavy sigh, Hermione Granger was beginning to think that frustration would be the order for her day.

Why did I bother? She sarcastically asked herself. I endure the comforts of the Knight Bus for what, a bowl of ice-cream at Fortescue's and maybe a greasy, gristly pub-pie at the Leaky Cauldron? Maybe I should have wasted my time by going to the Ministry and trying to sneak into the Department of Mysteries; I'm sure they'd just love to see me right now, wouldn't they?

A brief stab of pain flared across the diagonal scar permanently etched into her chest; it began below her left shoulder, marred her still developing breast below and ending finally a little above her right hip. This scar and the one borne by her best friend was why she was here this morning and now leaning against a wall, waiting for the burning ache to end. Quickly, the throbbing subsided, which allowed Hermione to notice that she was near the mouth of Knockturn Alley.

I wonder? The bushy-haired witch contemplated before flipping her cloak's hood over her head and, with a furtive glance, took a step towards a place that Mrs. Weasley believed was only for witches of loose morals. Oh well, Momma Weasley, I guess this makes me a slag, Hermione silently scoffed, she was tired of the redheaded matron's attitude which insisted that good girls just lie quietly—proper ladies don't like being known you know—as the man does the naughty to them. Like hell I'm gonna do that and with Voldemort officially running roughshod over Magical England, I intend to let my hair down, have some fun and not care about being proper. She thought, embracing what she now called her Dolohov Epiphany and its two major axioms, first: Hermione, Harry and their friends were woefully unprepared and way out of their depth and second: life is short, the grim-reaper is always hungry and its hunger is catholic—in the original sense of the word. This revelation—as she lay recovering in the Hogwarts' infirmary—had been enlightening and while she intended to get good marks in her sixth year; her grades were no longer the be all and end all that they had once been to the mid-teen. Indeed, Hermione Granger had realized there was more to life than 'outstandings' on tests and her teacher's praise. This year, she thought fervently, I intend to shag my best friend—no strings attached, if Harry's okay with that—and maybe even jump Luna Lovegood's bones if the opportunity presents itself. Hell, I may even take a crack at Miss Icequeen, she's got a great mind and a smoking bod—I wonder what snake tastes like? She thought, realizing once more that near-death experiences have a profound effect on one's life.

With another step behind her, Hermione Granger turned down Knockturn Alley and left the wholesome normality of Diagon Alley behind; except for a single set of eyes, no one took heed of the young witch, her purposeful stride or her destination.

)(

Her Lord's anger, while somewhat mollified still persisted but the risk of an unearned Crucio always hung—like the sword of Damocles—over any audience these days, and while being Crucioed by Lord Voldemort wasn't perhaps her favorite thing; it still beat the shit out of the black soul-sucking atmosphere that was Azkaban. At least writhing under my master's wand makes me feel alive; Bellatrix Lestrange thought and, not for the first time, considered that her service to the Dark Lord had turned her decidedly queer and positively masochistic. At least being a witch allows me to experience extreme acts of sex, she silently woolgathered, I almost pity the poor muggles who like what I do; they'd be dead long before the orgasms I have. Bellatrix shivered as her thoughts sent ripples of excitement through her sex and the telltale trickle of honey on her thighs easily indicated how aroused she was. I'm glad I listened to my mommy when she told me proper witches don't wear knickers beneath their robes, the dark witch ruminated before concluding: I'm bored, nothing's happening; I'm gonna head back and spend some quality time with my wand and my flagellum. Morgana's quim, she wordlessly fumed wishing she could find a playmate who'd quell her frustration. It's not like my husband or useless brother-in-law have what it takes to satisfy me, these days, she silently scowled, bloody hell, they likely have their dicks stuffed down each other's throats, right now; if I see that again I'm gonna stick my unlubed wand up my dear Rodolphus' ass and crucio him until he drowns Rabastan in piss.

Bellatrix Lestrange was about to spin out in apparition when her dark eyes spotted a possibly interesting diversion. Isn't that itty-bitty baby Potter's mudblood pet? She asked herself as she took a cautious second glance at a young witch standing near Knockturn Alley. I wonder what that cute—did I just think cute?—little mudblood's business is this morning? She thought, now certain that the young witch was indeed Hermione Granger; then the evil witch's mouth fell open: the good little witch had—after a sneaky glance around Diagon Alley—just stepped into the shadows of Knockturn Alley and vanished around the first corner. Well, well, it looks like my day just got a little bit more interesting; Bellatrix considered as she stepped towards that dark emporium herself, I'm sure my Lord will be very happy if I give him Potter's sexy—what! did I just think sexy? Damn, I'm becoming filthy in my old-age and frustration—little mudblood skank; I'm sure he'll be okay with me playing with her a little, first: just hav'ta remember to leave all her bits attached. With a purpose found on a silver platter, Bellatrix Lestrange quickly disillusioned herself and followed in the gloomy wake of her target.

)(

Hermione's heart was beating furiously in her chest but the courage that had sorted her into Gryffindor won the day. Cautiously, she approached a corner a few yards into the alley and made a broad left turn, hoping she'd see anyone lurking in the blind spot—it was clear. A quick right, which she took in the same manner as the first, followed the left turn; the second corner was lurker free as well so she proceeded. A few strides beyond the zigzag, Knockturn Alley widened before her. With hood still up, she vigilantly checked for threats but only saw a few hooded witches and wizards milling about, none looking overtly dangerous. Risk assessment aside, Hermione glanced about; other than looking older—and much grimier than Diagon—Knockturn Alley didn't live up to her expectations. Feeling reasonably secure, she began to explore.

Apart from the generally darker products than the ones found in the 'good' alley, the 'bad' alley offered a similar selection of shops. There was an Apothecary and a general merchandise store; at least one pub and—to her not entirely subtle rush of excitement—a bookstore called Dusky Dragon's Tomes of Darkness but that would have to wait: Wiccan's Wands and Rods called for her attention. Passing the bookstore—probably a first for young Witch Granger—she purposefully followed her curiosity, walked to the wand store and pushed its heavy door open; the tinkle of a small bell heralded her arrival.

"Oh my, what have we here?" the tenor and liquid voice of a man asked from the store's depths, "A young, pretty and newly darkening witchling has graced me with her presence; what have I done to deserve such favor my sexy shadow princess?"

"Who's there? Show yourself!" Hermione challenged, her wand drawn and pointed towards the voice.

"My, my, such fast reflexes for one so young and inexperienced," she heard as the owner of the voice stepped from the gloom that had hid him, he smiled, "perhaps less inexperienced than I had thought my dark debutante, I can almost taste that budding sinister nature of yours."

Keeping her wand on the man she asked, calm but firmly, "Who are you?"

"Tsk, tsk. I'd rather you not cast any spells with that Ollivander abortion, my dear," his silky voice seemed to caress her spirit as her wand leapt from her hand and into his, "I really don't want to deal with that old dried out virgin from the Improper Use of Magic Office, Mafalda Hopkirk. Don't worry dear, you can have your toy back when you leave; now come a little closer I don't bite—unless you want me to—and I hate raising my voice. Tea, my dear?"

Overwhelmed and stunned by how quickly she had been disarmed, Hermione shook her head in answer to his offer for tea; with nothing to lose and unwilling to leave without her wand, which he had put it in his pocket; the young lion stepped forward.

"Much better little shadow kitten," the man observed with an air like a sensual embrace. "So, how may I help you?"

"Who . . . who are you?" she asked, with an excited tenor that surprised her.

The man looked thoughtfully at her; his eyes were blue and held the same gemlike quality as Harry's emeralds that she so loved in her best friend.

"My name is John Smith . . ."

An unbelieving and unladylike snort escaped from Hermione.

". . . I get that a lot," he countered humorously, "I am the purveyor and crafter of fine custom wands and rods; how can I help you, young mistress of darkness?"

"I'm curious . . . Hey! Why do you keep addressing me as dark this or shadow that?" Hermione glowered, "I'm not some evil witch like . . . like Morgana or B . . . Bellatrix Lestrange; I don't appreciate it, thank you very much."

"I said dark not crazy, Lestrange is insane but there's no denying the darkness I see budding in you, young Miss Hermione Granger: once more, how can I help you?"

"Granger? Who's that?" She tried to fake innocence.

The man, who had called himself John Smith, glared at her in a manner that would've made even Professor McGonagall cringe, which Hermione thought was quite the achievement.

"H . . . How do you know who I am?" she asked timidly, cowed by the man's mere presence.

"That my dark dear is unimportant: now tell me why are you here? Your insufferable self-effacing attitude is bothersome, speak properly or leave."

He sounds like Professor Snape now, she thought before hyperactively saying, "I . . . Iwanttoknowaboutthetrace."

"The wand trace?"

Hermione nodded.

"What do you want to know about it," he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"How do I get rid of it?"

He smiled playfully and answered, "Easy, turn seventeen."

"Other than that."

"Oh my; does this little sable kitty have some nefarious plot, which requires her to know such things—planning on overthrowing the Ministry, perhaps?"

"Please, I really n . . . need t . . . to know," she almost sobbed, "I ha . . . have to help him but I . . . I can't if I can't use magic ou . . . outside of Hogwarts; I can't afford the l . . . lost practice time tha . . . that this summer has b . . . become."

"I take it that when you say 'help him' you're referring to one Harry Potter: AKA, The-Boy-Who-Lived; AKA, The-Attention-Seeking-Brat; AKA, The-Chosen-One or—if you'd prefer—The-Savior-of-The-Wizarding-World?"

The young bushy-haired witch could only nod.

"Why should I?" he asked suspiciously, "It's illegal to remove the trace from an under aged witch or wizard's wand after all."

Hermione looked at him with pleading eyes and said, "I . . . I know that, I'm not asking you to d . . . do it; I'm only asking how it's d . . . done."

John Smith chuckled and said, "You're splitting ontological hairs there my twilight princess; if I tell you then I'm just as guilty."

Forlorn, the hazel-eyed teen looked at the floor and asked, "If you won't help me, Mr. Smith; please tell me why you're calling me these weird titles—I'd really prefer Hermione if that's alright with you, sir."

She felt the man's eyes bore into her, he asked simply, "You've recently been exposed to a rather dark curse haven't you kitten?"

Hermione was sure she didn't like being referred to as 'kitten', again, by a stranger but she needed knowledge not argument so she let it pass and just nodded.

"I can feel the echo of the curse and while the physical damage was dealt with—too bad about the scar though—there lingers yet the darkness from wench the hex spawned: I'm sure you're aware of the changes taking place inside you."

She nodded again.

"Those changes are permanent; you may as well embrace them and enjoy the aftermath because trying to fight it will only render you mad, given sufficient time."

"I . . . I d . . . don't understand."

"Don't understand or don't want to understand?" He challenged. "Come now kitten, if you hadn't changed, would you be here now? Be honest with yourself, don't you feel less inhibited; does it feel good? Have not your dreams—both day and night—become, shall we say, impassioned and perhaps . . . deviant? Tell me, my nascent dark courtesan, what type of fantasies do you now entertain as you lie on your bed under the cover of night?"

Speechless, Hermione blushed; her answers were obvious, even without details.

"If you or I can't remove the trace without getting into trouble, is there something else I can do?" She plead as she recovered her voice, "Please, please help me."

"Well, if you insist on asking me like that I may have a solution for you," John Smith offered.

The young witch's eyes lit up; she was prepared to offer the wand-maker her virtue if he could help her, she whispered, "What is it?"

"Get a new wand that doesn't have the trace as an unwelcome and unasked for option," he replied.

"Can you . . . you know," she stammered, "sell me a wand?"

"I could but won't, I doubt you could afford my services, anyways; I make custom wands not mass produced hindrances like Ollivander is so proud of," the wand-maker sneered.

"How much?"

John Smith chuckled and answered, "Fifty Galleons to accept the commission; at least another fifty upon completion, depends on materials you see—that's providing the wand accepts you of course but your deposit is mine either way."

"I . . . I don't have that kind of money," Hermione said with great disappointment, "Would you consider some type of time payment plan?"

"I don't do credit; I don't do charity, Miss Granger," he answered gently.

Hermione looked down and began digging the tip of her right shoe into the floor; she looked uncertain and hesitant before softly offering, "If you make a wand for me, you . . . you can sh . . . shag me—I'm a vir . . . virgin, too. If you want a down payment, I . . . I'll give you a bl . . . blowjob here and now—you can even c . . . cum in my mouth, if you want; I'll even t . . . try to swallow, if that's your sort of thing."

John Smith erupted with laughter as he stared incredulously at the young witch before him.

"I . . . I know I'm not really pretty or s . . . sexy or anything like that—even though you said I am—but I'm offering all I have, please don't laugh at me," the young witch implored, "If . . . if that isn't enough, I'll . . . I'll even let you—you know—f . . . fuck my ass."

"If you had any questions about being at least somewhat dark now, I'd seriously suggest you consider the offers you just put on my table, Miss Granger," the wand-maker said sincerely, "A light witch would never be so bold or promiscuous in trade. Did you really mean it or are you just not thinking about what you're saying?"

The young witch took her eyes from the floor and gazed directly into John Smith's sapphires, she firmly said, "I mean it."

"What about a month ago?"

"You're right, I've changed; a month ago I would've never made this offer—I wouldn't have even considered it and I would've been sorely offended if it was suggested—but that was a month ago," the young witch said clearly. "Since then I've learned that Harry and I are horridly unprepared for what's coming and our so called mentors and guardians are doing nothing to help us: in fact I feel like we're being offered as sacrificial lambs to some greater purpose or good—if I'm going to be killed, I intend to go down fighting!"

"Very well, my shadow princess I can sense your intent but won't accept your offer—save your first times for something other than trade, it'll be more fun that way," he told her.

Once again, the desolate witch sought solace in the planks that made up the floor of Wiccan's Wands and Rods—she'd offered all she had but it hadn't been enough. Distraught, she was about to leave when she heard, "Hermione."

"Yes?" she replied soulfully.

"Let me make you an offer—no guarantees mind you," John said.

"What is it?" hope animated the hazel eyes of the teen witch once more.

"It begins with a story."

Her eyes lit up and her demeanor became that of an honor student, which she was.

"This is story about my family, Miss Granger—a real story, as opposed to one of those fanciful legends that many families convince themselves to be true," the wand-crafter began. "Many, many years ago, my great, great—and then some—grandfather traveled to the Far East to gather knowledge and materials that would be helpful in our craft. He journeyed far and wide, meeting sages and mages of renown and deepened our family's lore and art by a great deal. After quite the thorough exploration of continental Asia, he found himself traveling the feudal territories of an archipelago we now know as Japan and while there he came across this."

John Smith, putting words to action, summoned an ornate case and handed it to Hermione. She slid the small chest's lid aside and looked at the contents; she observed, "It's a wand."

"Why, yes it is; don't touch it yet," he replied and virtually ordered, stopping the young witch's compulsion to remove the wand from its case; the wand-maker took the case back and resumed. "Pretty plain looking, eh, kitten?"

Hermione studied the wand and then answered, "I don't know; I kinda like its elegant simplicity, Mr. Smith."

"Just John please, my dark princess," he said; Hermione tried to ignore the honorific. "Anyways, this wand has gathered dust in my store for well-nigh two hundred years now and has yet to find its worthy partner. Many witches and wizards have grasped that wand and in every case, it remained nothing more than an inert piece of wood. Now, don't get me wrong—my erogenous twilight kitten—my family has made money from that wand and I'm willing to let you have a go; can you afford one Galleon princess?"

Confused, the young witch nodded.

"Wonderful, show me the money and take your chances—like many before you have," he offered, "if it accepts you it's yours for that lone Galleon; if not, I keep both the wand and the money. Do you want to give a go, my dear?"

With nothing to lose but a single gold coin, Hermione removed a Galleon from her waist-purse and, with a shaky hand, tendered it to the wand-vendor.

"A Galleon is a fair bit of money for most underage witches; are you sure?" he asked, ensuring her willingness to gamble.

She nodded again.

"Very well, my dear," John Smith said in resigned acceptance, took the proffered coin from the bushy-haired witch before holding the case out to her, and offered her the wand, "take up the Kamisama no Neko and see if it likes you, kitten."

Hermione gingerly removed the oddly named focus from its coffer and found it to be surprising heavy; it also felt a little cool on her fingertips, she glanced at the wand-crafter and asked curiously: "Why is it called Kamisama no Neko, it sounds sorta Japanese?"

John Smith just shrugged and answered, "Don't know, that's what my gramps called it—wouldn't vouch for the name's accuracy, though—and it sounds Nipponese because that's the wand my great, great—well, you get the picture—grandfather brought back from his travels. Go on, kitten, give it a wave; let's see if it likes you or if you're just one of the thousand or so witches and wizards who've taken the same chance."

"Lumos," she incanted and gave the wand a little wave; its tip flared to life with a blinding flash.

"My, my, who would've known," John said with a smidgen of surprise that suddenly burst into amazement. He ogled, transfixed; as the sphere of light folded back upon the teenage witch and wholly engulfed her. Hermione Granger—perhaps the brightest witch since Rowena Ravenclaw—opened her mouth and began to scream but the wand-maker heard nothing; he only saw the agony in her eyes. Unmoving, the man did nothing to aid and only watched in awe as she began to fade from view; the last of her to fade away were a pair of pain ridden eyes.

"Curiouser and curioser," John Smith muttered to the ozone charged air of his now empty shop; he reached into his pocket, withdrew the vine-wood and dragon heartstring wand and tossed it on the counter, "I hope she can come back for that, that's if she's alive and on this plane still, I guess."

Without a second glance at the focus on his countertop, the wand-maker settled into his comfortable chair, picked up the book on a little side-table and began to read. Resigned to the likelihood that the sole Galleon from Miss Granger would be his day's only earnings he did not expect the following brash arrival of a second and older witch.

"Where's the mudblood!" Bellatrix Lestrange demanded, her wand drawn, waving and threatening as she burst through door.

John Smith casually looked up from his book, scowled—he didn't like being interrupted by a bout of bad manners—and answered in irritation, "Not here."

"Where did it go!" the corseted witch challenged the vendor.

"It? Oh you mean Miss Granger: don't know."

"Do you know who I am?" Bellatrix almost screamed at the man who didn't seem even the least bit intimidated by her.

John Smith, doing his best to look obviously lecherous, eyed Voldemort's first lady up and down before replying; he said, "Yes, I know who you are: you are a dark, sexy and scantily clad witch called Bellatrix Lestrange. Tell me Mrs. Lestrange, how's Tom Riddle doing these days—I heard he had a rather scaly makeover recently."

"CRU . . ." she never completed the incantation; her wand had leapt from her hand and into his—just like Hermione's and with as little effort.

The wand-smith put down his book, stood and glared at the dark but disarmed witch; he tossed the walnut and dragon heartstring wand onto his counter and smiled slyly as it rolled into Hermione's and came to rest.

"I say . . . What's with witches this morning," he said in a decidedly mocking tone, "it's usually the wizards who want everyone to see their wands; do you have gender issues Mrs. Lestrange?"

"Are . . . Are you mad?" she sputtered in rage, "How . . . How d . . . dare a wizard of such lowly birth deride the great Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"I'm mad? Who just referred to herself in the third person; not that it really matters. By the way, may I direct your attention to your wand's current location and remind you who put it there? If I can do that, why do you think I'd be afraid of you? Your half-blooded hybrid master might pose a bit of a threat but he knows me and gives me a wide berth; I was by far his least enjoyable attempt with recruitment, ask him about it someday."

"You dare to compare yourself to the Great Lord Voldemort?" she raged on.

"Did I hear you verbally capitalize 'great' my dear?" John Smith scoffed, "and as for 'Lord' or 'Voldemort' for that matter: I'm not buying his press, recent or past."

"The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard since Merlin and you presume to ridicule him?" Bellatrix indignantly contested, "Do you really believe you've the power to stand against him or are you just boldly blustering?"

"Hmm . . . let me think," the wand-smith drawled reticently, "I'm neither blustering nor bold nor concerned when it comes to 'your lord's' alleged power but I doubt it will ever come to a test—although Tom is a fool, so I might be mistaken. As to that whole 'power to rival Merlin' thing, are you a comedian Mrs. Lestrange? I've met a fair few witches and wizards who think your so called 'Lord Voldemort the most powerfulest wizard since Merlin' is little better than a bug. Bloody hell, my amatory witch, you just missed one this morning; you should've barged in sooner, you could've met her—I do hope Miss Granger is okay, though, it was a rather fanciful departure, after all—then again, perhaps she isn't ready for you just yet; she needs more self-confidence at least: if I'm not mistaken."

"Did I hear you right; did you just say that that mudblood was powerful? Now who's the comedian?"

"Such is the folly of bigotry but go ahead, believe what you must; I know what I saw but let me tell you: it's always a pleasure to meet an Eve of such potential," John Smith observed. "So Mrs. Lestrange, on another note, can I interest you in anything this fine morning? No? Very well then, why don't you come back later today or maybe tomorrow and try again, I'm sure Hermione will be back for her wand sooner or later—not that, if my suspicions are correct, she'll need it anymore. Ta, ta for now, Bellatrix and don't forget your wand, you still need one."

Bellatrix Lestrange—for all she was perhaps a touch insane; wasn't stupid—knew the man before her was too much to tackle on her own. Angrily, she stomped to the counter—her stiletto heeled boots almost marring his hardwood floor with each step—and snatched up not only her wand but Hermione's as well; with a self-promoting pat on her back cackle, Voldemort's dark first lady apparated away from Wiccan's Wands and Rods.

"Damn," John muttered once more to the air, "I didn't get a chance to ask her to return Hermione's wand the next time she sees her."

)(

The young witch, Hermione Granger, woke to a familiar softness and instantly recognizable scents that could only mean she was in her bedroom. With a groan, she rolled onto her back and immediately caterwauled as pain—similar to accidently bending a finger back too far—shot from her tailbone and literally caused her to leap from her bed. She felt her bushy hair graze the ceiling, as she soared through the air before she soundlessly lit upon the floor, oddly, using her hands and feet at the same time. Panicking in the aftermath of her exceedingly non-human landing and the weird way her body felt somehow longer, Hermione stood and glanced into the full-length mirror on the closet door; the reflection that looked back wasn't and yet was her.

"What the bloody hell!" she exclaimed before fainting to the floor.

Blackness reigned until the first tendrils of consciousness returned and when she opened her eyes, again, she found herself looking sideways into Crookshanks very near and furry face.

Good afternoon master, Hermione heard a distinctly male voice in her mind, are you feeling better? I hope so; I'm hungry—feed me.

"Crookshanks?" she whispered. Have I gone insane? She asked herself.

Insane? I think not but you've definitely changed—rather drastically I might add, Hermione heard the earlier voice reply. I think the change really suites you, you're very pretty—almost purrfect—too bad about the size difference, though; if you were smaller I might just . . .

Is my cat hitting on me? She asked herself in near panic.

You should stand up master and take a good look at yourself; what she thought was Crookshanks suggested. You're a much finer queen than Mrs. Norris—she's such a slag—you smell better too, would you like me to use my tongue and . . .

. . . don't finish that line, Crookshanks!

Goodness master, where's your mind at? Hermione heard the smirk in her cat's voice—or was that thoughts?

Aaugh . . . Why am I having this discussion with my pussycat, her thoughts reeled from the absurdity of her current circumstances.

Why not? Besides, we've never really talked before and you've grown into a really pretty kitty—meow!—go on take a look; I bet you'll wish you had a twin after you see yourself.

Conceding to her pet's prompting, Hermione rolled from her side and rose to her hands and feet—with feline grace—before standing; she turned to her reflection and gasped: she was beautiful; well she thought she was beautiful, opinions on beauty were so subjective, after all, she knew. Still, she did have the cutest kitty ears she had ever seen and she loved how they twitched and turned—independently—to focus on even the most minute noises from anywhere in the house and then there were her eyes. She absolutely adored her new kitty eyes that twinkled like blue sapphires—deep blue, like that John Smith guy's—too, which peered from her reflection and pierced the depths of her spirit. Examining herself further, Hermione turned a little left and right; she had fur now, the color of her hair, which looked silky smooth and shiny; it covered her back and sides—arms, legs and hands included—from head to toe and her tail as well. That's kinda cool, she thought as she observed the odd way it feathered to nothing as it wrapped to her front; now entirely hairless but for her eyebrows and lashes. Even the triangle of fur between her legs—which she had kept neat and sculptured for no other reason than she liked it that way—was gone, leaving her as smooth as the day she was born. The young cat-witch also noticed the narrow hairless triangle, which came to an apex at the underside of her tail; making things far more hygienic than they would've been otherwise.

Overall, she loved how she looked and was pretty certain that Harry was going to find her hot too; her only disappointment: her C sized breasts were now a B. Nevertheless, it wasn't something she couldn't live with and she had to admit that larger breasts wouldn't have complement her new body; she looked lean, fit and so femme-feline with its new muscular definition. Hermione shivered sensually and found herself agreeing with Crookshanks; having a twin would've been a lot of fun. Suddenly the old Hermione reared in her revised psyche.

Why the hell am I not yowling and chasing my tail in panic? She thought with the old bookworm, now polluted by felinity, part of her mind.

You're a cat now, you're not gonna let little things—like being a cat-girl—bother you, Crookshanks thought in sage reply.

Little things! I'm a frigging cat-girl now—that puts a real damper on my future, Hermione thought, mentally decrying her fate to her pet. And what about my parents? What will I do with the rest of my summer—it's not like I can go anywhere, especially in the muggle world, looking like this! Bloody hell, if Umbridge-bitch sees me, she'll have me locked away as some dirty new form of half-breed or shag me because of her obsession with all things kittenish and cute. A shudder of disgust raced through her altered body; making her wish she could soap her brain and wash away the accompanying and vivid imagery her imagination had unwelcomely created. What am I going to do, Crookshanks?

Fine, fine, don't get your tail in a knot, master, her cat/kneazel hybrid tried to silently mollify his new queen. If you want to return to your far less attractive human appearance, focus on your previous, albeit less pretty, form and it will return.

It will?

Crookshanks sent Hermione a mental sigh and a thoughtful equivalent of rolling his eyes. Would I lie to you?

Maybe, I don't know; we've never spoken to—or is that think at?—each other before this, she thought back.

Master! You wound me; I'd never lie to a pretty kitty that I wish I could have kittens with . . .

. . . Crookshanks! I'd never . . .

. . . I wish you would. Her pet cerebrally retorted. You're feline now, give up those silly human morals and adopt a cat's ethos: kitties never regret and are far more sensual; we pretty much lack inhibitions too. Crookshanks made his point by nuzzling, rubbing and twisting the length of his body around Hermione's legs: the cat-girl shivered; she wasn't cold.

Stop that! She mentally ordered and had her thoughts been vocalized, she would've been breathless.

Stop what?

Um . . . you know . . . t . . . teasing me like that, Hermione stammered in thought as her body responded in a manner that would've appalled her before. Is my cat turning me on? She thought, surprised that she even had to ask the question.

Crookshanks laughed; the feline equivalent that is.

Don't laugh, this is all new to me! She mindfully exclaimed before taking a few deep and calming breaths. So, she began thoughtfully, all I have to do is focus on my humanity and I'll revert to the old me. Will it be permanent and all encompassing?

Hmm . . . Hard to say about the 'all encompassing' part but I believe that if you believe you won't shift back you won't but you'll likely need to concentrate a modicum of concentration on maintaining your human form, which is no longer your true form and will likely require some concentration to maintain, too: came his mental but somewhat convoluted retort.

Taking him at his word—thoughts—she closed her eyes, focused on her supplanted humanity and pictured her former self; her efforts were rewarded by the odd, but not painful, feeling of ebb and flow throughout her entire body. The strange sensation quickly subsided and she reopened her eyes; standing in her mirror was the naked witch she had been this morning, almost, except for her eyes. If it hadn't been for those sapphire blue; cat-like—vertical iris—eyes she had retained, her reformation would've been perfect: even her breasts were C again but her waist appeared narrower than before; still, she could live with such a little difference, nonetheless, unfortunately her ugly scar had returned too.

What if it isn't real, Hermione thought, momentarily blinded with panic; she had to make sure and there was only one way.

Without another option to confirm that what she saw was physical and not just illusion, she allowed her hands to roam, freely, allover her body. She whimpered in unexpected and rather unwelcome arousal as her fingertips left wakes of licentious flame wherever they touched. She reached her chest and when she stroked her breasts and touched her excited nipples; she let loose a very, very unladylike but very feline-like yowl; with vocal cords a rumble, Hermione Granger—the smartest witch of her generation—began to purr. Willing her hands and fingers to explore further, she caressed her flat stomach as she continued to examine her body, rapidly approaching yet another corporal change; she touched the soft fleshy mound of her perfectly smooth and still hairless mons veneris—another difference she could live with, she concluded—her arousal rose to staggering heights.

With an intense corporealness compelling her actions, Hermione brushed a finger across the now hoodless nub of her clitoris. Pleasure beyond anything she'd experienced ravaged her body and drove her to her knees. She threw back her head and caterwauled as she plunged, without hesitation, three fingers between her labia and so deep that she ruptured her hymen. She yowled in pain but the brief jab of agony was worth the reward that followed when Hermione began—almost brutally—to plunder her sex. She drove each successive thrust deeper until she felt fingertips pound her cervix and sensed copious amounts of semi-viscous liquid drenching her hand and wrist; in the pressure cooker now residing in her body, tension built to an unbearable level. Time, place and being became meaningless as pressure increased exponentially before finally erupting into something so far beyond rapture that it was undefinable; Hermione saw stars and then blissful darkness smothered her, she collapsed into a boneless puddle of heavy breathing.

Hermione eventual awoke to the sound of purring—her own—and the overpowering scent of sex. She poked the tip of her rough tongue past her lips and tasted her lingering pheromones still infusing the air; an experience and sensation she knew could only accomplish in her cat-girl form.

That she had reverted to felinity was apparent on waking—her two forms felt distinctly different, after all—but it didn't dampen the pleasurable afterglow that left her feeling all warm and fuzzy. On the whole, Hermione felt limp, relaxed and had a pleasurable throbbing between her legs that, had she been her old self, would've been alarming and guilt inducing in the extreme; she was so glad she was a cat because kitty-Granger didn't regret what she had done—it had felt beyond incredible. Still, she was forced to relent, it would've been even better if she had had a playmate to share it with it; she twitched an ear, opened one eye and spied a snoozing Crookshanks. She purred a little louder, but before any unwelcome thoughts might sprout, she unconsciously pushed them beneath the surface of her fertile imagination. He's too small, anyways, she considered before the true nature of the thought dawned in her mind, that's unequivocally creepy, Crookshanks is like . . . like my child, that's just wrong. Hermione was about to turn to other thoughts when the full implication of what she had been subliminally thinking stunned her. Eww . . . I did not just almost consider what I thought I considered, did I? Get it together, Granger, he's your cat not some furry profligate playmate, where's your mind at, girl—he too small.

Where's your mind at master? Her pet's drowsy thoughts intruded, directed to Hermione. Your solo mating ritual was frisky and purrfectly erotic—me . . . ee . . . ow!—and your purrfume is so arousing I'm tempted to give you a full-body tongue bath; are you still in heat?—I thoroughly bathed myself, spending a lot of time on my unsheathed barbs, just to take the lingering edge off my yowling frenzy.

She was growing antsy and uncomfortable just lolling on the floor so she rose to her hands and knees and leapt—assuredly catlike—the eight or so feet across her bedroom with the intention of landing on her bed, she managed with effortless agility and grace. On her hands and knees, she conducted a few circuits of her mattress prior to kneading her sheets into a messy pile and then flopped to her side, her muscles limp; young pussy-witch Granger curled into a ball and rested her head on the backs of her crossed paws—hands. Crookshanks joined her and, with a quick nuzzle and cursory lick to Hermione's lips; the ginger fluff-ball, with the flat face, collapsed into a deboned mound of relaxed felinity.

Crookshanks, what have I become? The now blue-eyed witch thought, her mind surprisingly calm considering the situation.

I believe you're a bakeneko—a mischievous Japanese cat Yōkai, Crookshanks thought in uncertain reply, which is odd because you need a Kami Kōgō no Bakeneko to bite you with the intent of making a courtesan for that to happen. As far as I know, the last clan of bakeneko—the Kami Tsume to Kiba no Kyoto—faded from history some two hundred or so years ago: human years, not cat.

Why do you know so much? When I bought you three summers ago, I thought you were just a cat, Hermione silently posed.

Humans! Always underestimating us, what do they know? The feline mentally huffed. They think that if we don't talk we must be stupid but really it's just that we usually have nothing important to say; why waste valuable nap time with idle chatter? You'd think witches and wizards would know better, but noooo, they're as bad as most muggles; the only human in recent memory—I can think of—to give cats their divine due was a muggle writer called Lovecraft—he wrote about us in 'Cats and Dogs'. For a human, he had an almost purrfect attitude towards us. That human Eliot—I think his name was—was pretty cat-smart, too.

So, I'm a bakeneko—is that right?—now, Hermione thought, beyond the obvious; how is it going to affect my life?

Aside from heightened sensuality, lowered inhibition and an aloofness towards others and circumstances you can't control; not to mention feline elegance, grace and poise, Crookshanks replied cerebrally, you'll have a cat's reflexes, agility, sense of balance and strength in all your forms.

All forms?

Yes, likely three: human, bakeneko and full feline, Crookshanks answered. Across all you'll likely keep a cat's night-vision, sense of smell and hearing; not to mention that sorta sixth sense that allows you to be hyper-aware of anything in your threat-gradient proximity.

What about my magic? She thought worriedly.

Likely enhanced and you'll probably be able to do lots wand-less too, he thought to her. If you're fully bakeneko you'll have their abilities, too: a unique form of apparition and invisibility in which you fade in and out, body first and then your eyes when going and the reverse when coming—very strange looking, I'd imagine; a short range line-of-sight teleport—think magical pounce; and an ability to pass through most solid objects like walls.

That's kinda cool, a Schrödinger ability, the cat-girl thought, I hope your right.

What's a Schrödinger? Crookshanks thought to her.

He was a scientist who tried to simply explain a science called quantum mechanics and a thing called the uncertainty principle, she mentally replied. He used an idea that involved a cat in a sealed container and suggested that until you open the box you can't know if it's dead or alive; therefore the cat exists in the weird intermediary state of being both alive and dead, at the same time. A few writers have taken the whole idea further and suggested that you can't even know if the cat remains in the container when you're not looking—let alone being alive or dead.

What's the point? Her familiar thought; sounding rather blasé about the whole thing. As long as I'm not in the box, why would I care?

She considered Crookshanks' response and realized he was undeniably wise, he was right, it didn't matter and with that she promptly fell asleep; feeling relatively sexually satisfied, sporting a little smile and softly purring.

)(

"Hermione, are you here? We brought dinner," A woman shouted; the sudden sound woke Hermione with a start making her pop—literally—upwards in alarm; she almost hit the ceiling. In momentary dread, she pounced to her bedroom door, locked it and then leaned against it; she fought to rein in her panting and furiously beating heart.

"I'll be down in a couple of minutes, mom," she called through her door. What am I going to do, Crookshanks, they can't see me like this, she thought as her mind roiled.

You're out of sorts master, have you forgotten that you can shift?

That's right, she silently concurred in relief and focused on her humanity—like Crookshanks had told her. She immediately felt her Bakeneko features lose their felinity and reform to human in seconds. Needing to confirm her appearance, she glanced at the mirror and saw Hermione Granger, resplendently human except for stunning sapphire cat-like eyes, which remained stubbornly perpetual. How do I explain my eyes to mom and dad, Crookshanks?

I'd worry more about going to dinner in your current attire, master, the feline thought mordantly. As for the eye change, tell your parents you were hit by some weird magic in Diagon Alley today and that you're looking into it, which isn't lying.

I guess, Hermione mindfully conceded before rummaging through her dresser for something to wear. Choosing aqua sateen bloomers and a matching tube top that left her midriff bare, she quickly clad herself; sans nickers and bra because she didn't think of them. She left her bedroom; the smell of halibut and chips wafted from the main floor. Hermione's mouth watered and her stomach growled—she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Her bare feet padded silently to the landing and, with naught a thought, she leapt the twelve feet the stairs required to descend nine; even in her human form, and she landed with silence and grace—on all fours—before sashaying stealthily to the dining room and surprising her mother.

"Hermione! You nearly gave me a heart . . ." Emma Granger paused, dumbfounded, when she saw her daughter, ". . . What happened to your eyes!"

"What's wrong with kitten's eyes?" Daniel Granger asked with concern as he entered the dining room, he looked at his daughter and said, "That's . . . um . . . well . . . a different look for you princess." He had to fight an obvious desire to snicker.

"Dan, this is serious!" Emma exclaimed, "Our daughter's eyes are sapphire blue and . . . and . . . well . . . catlike. It's downright obvious; we can't let our friends see her like this: how do we explain? 'I'm sorry, we should've told you but, you see, our daughter is . . . well . . . she's a witch and goes to a school for magic' is not something we can say to most people."

"There, there honey; we'll manage like always," Dan soothed as he put their newspaper wrapped dinner on the table; he turned to his daughter and asked, "What happened Hermione?"

"I was exposed to some unexpected magic while visiting Diagon Alley this morning and had to leave before I realized what happened," Hermione replied, "I hope to go back tomorrow; I think I know who I can talk to."

"Tomorrow is a late start for the surgery; can we give you a lift to the Leaky Cauldron?" Her father offered.

"That'd be great dad, I love you," she said and gave him a hug; it made her tingle amorously but the cat inside ignored the implications of her response.

"What about me?" Her mother teased, "Don't I deserve a hug too?"

"I love you too, mom," Hermione said affectionately and gave her mom an adoring embrace; her inner feline reveled in the sensation of her mother's breasts against her own, Hermione's body responded accordingly.

"Young lady, are you not wearing a bra?" Emma asked; her prudish tone worthy of a scandalized Molly Weasley but said facetiously and with a grin of womanly camaraderie.

The young witch broke their embrace and stepped back. Mom must have felt my nipples when we hugged; that's so oedipean: why doesn't it bother me?

Cat now, she distinctly heard Crookshanks mental titter.

"I was hot earlier, mom, so I took it off," she answered.

"Speaking of hot," Dan Granger said, "let's eat, I hate lukewarm fish and chips."

Emma fetched utensils and plates and Dan unwrapped the dinner, Hermione's stomach growled loudly as she took her place at the table.

"Someone's hungry," her father commented, dishing up a heaping serving of chips and the biggest piece of halibut for his daughter before lightheartedly teasing, "how augury of us that we got fish and chips, this evening, eh kitten?"

"Dad!" Hermione feigned offense before saying, "Why are you taking this so well, I mean I've got cat-eyes in sapphire blue; shouldn't you at least be a little freaked out?"

"They're very pretty eyes, honey," her father replied, "and why do you think I should be 'freaked out' even a little? We've grown to expect the unexpected—goes with the territory when your daughter's a witch—since shortly after you were born; maybe even longer."

"Longer? How could it be longer?" she enquired.

"Well, even when momma was pregnant with you, things were kind of odd," he told her.

"I'd say," Emma added.

"How was it odd, mom?"

"When I was pregnant with you," Hermione's mom responded, "It was a text book 'perfect' pregnancy; no even more perfect than perfect."

"Better than perfect, how do you mean?"

Emma Granger smiled and said, "First off, I never had even a day with morning sickness. My weight gain precisely followed your growth, I gained neither too much nor too little, only what I needed. During the entire term, I had nary a cough, a sniffle nor even an upset tummy. Every single pregnancy milestone was met precisely as expected, I went into labor to the day my obstetrician said was my due date and gave birth, with what I'd say was more discomfort than pain; within minutes of arriving at the hospital. I never cussed out your dad or crushed his hand at any point while in labor, from water-break until your birth. Heck, your dad got off lucky during my pregnancy because I was never moody nor did I ever send him out—middle of the night or day for that matter—because of some weird craving."

"I'm not sure I'd agree fully;" her father lightheartedly said, "mom did have one craving; she was absolutely insatiable throughout her entire pregnancy."

Emma turned beet-red and exclaimed, "Daniel Granger, our sixteen year-old daughter does not need to hear that!"

"Well, it's true," Hermione's father countered friskily, "Your mom's water broke following some intense shower playtime the day you were born kitten."

"Dan!"

Her father smirked and stated, "Like I said, momma was insatiable morning, noon and night or, if you prefer; before breakfast, at lunch and then after dinner: I'm lucky I didn't wear it off. She was utterly uninhibited too."

"Daniel Granger, she does not need to hear that, either!"

"Still," her father said with spirited delight, "if you take after momma, kitten, I hope your man has enough stamina to satisfy your ravenous urgings or be willing to share you with . . ."

". . . eww, dad! We're eating!" Hermione exclaimed, her face was as red as her mom's but not from embarrassment, she regretted not wearing her knickers now; more importantly, she wasn't sure if she'd escape the table without her parents seeing the darker shade of aqua now coloring her bloomer's crotch. She could smell herself too but she wasn't alone in the pheromone department; her parents were obviously looking forward to going to bed tonight. I wish I could join them . . . what the bloody hell am I thinking; first my pet now my parents: what's up with that? Her mind screamed . . . still? Aaugh, this is so frustrating, why is this happening to me?

Cat, remember? She heard Crookshanks' mental half-awake whisper. It's more about when as opposed to who from now on and I'm sure gender won't be an issue either.

Crookshanks!

Cats are sensual creatures, master, her pet's thoughts explained, it's in our nature; when the urge strikes we don't think about ethics or morals we just do it. Unfortunately, as a human/feline you get hit with a double whammy; the cat's let's do it now because I'm in season, mixed with the human's desire to mate, which is barely under control in most human queens—though they'd like to deny it—and almost never under control in human toms, at the best of times. Besides, it's not just about you being a cat now; you and I both know you were starting to go down this route—not a surprise, considering what happened to you—becoming a bakeneko just enhanced and sped things up: a good thing too, your old inhibitions—even reduced—would've never allowed you a cat's freedom from guilt.

Great, I'm gonna be a full-on slag now, Hermione pilloried, upon realizing that where her mind once ruled body, her body would now rule her mind. Well at least as a witch, contraception won't be an issue, I'll just cast that Whore Charm I read about that prevents pregnancy until the counter is cast; it affects one's inhibition and libido but considering how I'm feeling now, I'm not going to notice any difference: my friends might—I hope Harry has a big . . ."

She distinctly heard her cat chortle in her mind; he sounded approving before mentally adding, better him than that redheaded rat lover who wants to mate you.

You mean Ron?

Who else?

What's wrong with him?

I don't like how he smells; Crookshanks answered in her mind, he always smells jealous and resentful. I also hate how often he hurts you—he wouldn't be welcome in my clowder, why is he welcome in yours, master?

"Kitten, are you listening?" Her father's question interrupted Hermione's discussion with her cat.

"Sorry dad, my thoughts were elsewhere," she replied.

"How rare to catch you woolgathering, precious," Dan Granger teased, "anyways, can I take your dishes?"

Hermione glanced at her empty plate; she didn't recall finishing her dinner but said, "Sure dad, I guess that bit of magic I got hit with earlier really drained me; I'm definitely going to bed early tonight."

"You sure you'll be okay, dear?" Her mother asked with deepening concern.

"As sure as I can be mom," she answered honestly, "I won't know for sure until at least tomorrow."

"You'll tell us if we need to take you to a . . . a witchdoctor won't you dear?" Emma asked in earnest apprehension.

Hermione giggled a little and said, "They're called Healers in the magical community mom and if I need to go, I'll tell you."

"Promise?" her mom asked, while giving her daughter an anxious look.

"I promise," she replied.

"We worry about you kitten," her dad said as he gathered the dishes, "we see so little of you as it is so maybe we're a bit overprotective when you're home. Speaking of which, are you going to the Weasley's this summer?"

Hermione looked thoughtful and answered, "Maybe for a couple of nights but that's about it; I thought I'd spend most of my summer at home this year."

"Really!" her mother's eyes lit with joy as she gathered the last of the dinner dishes.

Looking very happy, she followed her husband to the kitchen; Hermione had an opportunity to leave the table without embarrassment and took it.

"Mom; Dad, I'm heading up to put my jammies on," she called after her parents, "I'll be back in a jiffy."

"Okay honey," Emma called back from the kitchen.

"What do you say to a couch-cuddle movie night, kitten?" Her father asked happily.

"Sure, we haven't done that in ages," Hermione answered as she leapt over the stairs to the second floor without thinking, landing once more with agility, grace and above all silence. She padded noiselessly to her room and entered to the staring eyes of Crookshanks; feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze, she covered her crotch with her hands and asked, "What?"

Her cat laughed silently, the young witch heard it clearly but ignored it; she shed her shirt and soggy bloomers—the air on her naked body felt like a sweet caress—and reached for her pajamas; she wished she could just forego the unnecessary garments, altogether. As tempting as it might be, Hermione was certain that open nakedness would make her parents uncomfortable so she put on her pajamas for their sake.

"You coming Crookshanks?" she asked as she left her bedroom, her familiar followed. Together, they slinked silently to the landing and, where Crookshanks opted to use the stairs; Hermione placed one hand on the banister and hoped over, she landed on the main floor as soundlessly as before, in her earlier manner.

You don't haf'ta leap every time, you know, her cat impishly scolded.

Why not, it's faster and fun, the now sapphire-eyed witch retorted nonchalantly and without a care for propriety.

That's very catlike, I'm proud of you master, Crookshanks thought to her playfully, you'll soon be able to strut about with your tail in the air with pride; but you'll likely have to beat off the unworthy toms vying for your attention.

There was something about the image her cat's words had inspired, which made Hermione feel really good about herself and her body; look out Brown, Bones and Chan she plotted amorously, all the good toms are mine this year but if you girls are good to me, we can share tongue baths. Once again, she heard Crookshanks snicker, lewdly, in her head but ignored him as she pranced into the family room to join her parents on the sofa. She squeezed between her mom and dad, nestled into her father's side as her mother cuddled into her.

"What movie are we watching?" she asked, not really caring one way or the other, as Crookshanks hopped into her lap, settled in and began purring; being with family would even make a bad movie good as she reveled in the couch-cuddle.

"It's called Outbreak and it's about . . ." her father began and then suddenly asked, ". . . Are you purring, kitten?"

Momentarily aghast, Hermione said, "It must be Crookshanks daddy."

"It most certainly isn't Crookshanks—at least not entirely," her mother observed and suddenly the young witch felt very self-conscious.

"I guess you'll haf'ta look into that tomorrow, too, kitten," Dan Granger said, "but for the time being, if you feel like purring, by all means purr away, kitten; it's very soothing and makes you feel very close. It reminds me how much I miss out family cuddles, as well."

"Me too," Hermione's mother chimed in agreement and with both parents being accepting she couldn't help but resume purring, harmoniously, with Crookshanks.

It seemed as if the movie had just started, when it finished and at some point during the video, Hermione fell asleep. Her head was resting on her father's lap; he had been stroking her hair.

"Kitten," her father said softly and gave her a little shake.

"Wha . . . What is it?" She asked sleepily and very relaxed.

"Movie's over, you fell asleep, kitten," Dan told her, "I think you should head up to bed."

"Okay daddy," Hermione said, half asleep as she rose to her feet and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles.

"Goodnight dear," her mother said lovingly as her daughter approached the door.

"G'night mommy," she said, obviously sleepy.

"Goodnight kitten," her father bade.

"G'night daddy," the young witch mumbled before leaving the family room.

Hermione slowly made her way to the stairs but she didn't have the energy to leap this time so she used the stairs as they were intended. She made her way to the bathroom did her business and brushed and flossed her teeth, automatically. With bathroom detail complete, she went to her room, climbed into bed and instantly fell asleep until her parents unwittingly woke her.

"I need a good fuck, Dan, get over here," her mother's quiet voice demanded, stirring Hermione from her slumber.

"What about Hermione?" she heard her father ask quietly.

"What about her?" Their now awake daughter heard her mom say softly, "You saw how tired she was; she'll be dead to the world until tomorrow."

"Still," Dan Granger began in little more than a whisper, "we haven't made love with our daughter in the house for ages; you've gotten loud too."

"Just the way you like me," she heard her mother's heat dripping tease. "Besides, she's on the other side of the house."

"Do you think her ears match her new eyes?" Her father faintly asked.

"I don't know," Emma Granger quietly answered, "don't really care right now either, I want you puppy; besides it's not like Hermione is a little girl anymore."

"I'm coming," Hermione heard her dad clearly, obviously because of her transformation; even his footsteps crossing their bedroom floor were audible, as was the heated kiss she heard that accompanied the obvious sound of a mattress compressing. She also heard the telltale sound of lips against skin and Hermione began visualizing her parents making love.

"I love your tits, Emma, I could suck on them all night," her father said; her mother's following moan reached their daughter's ears. Hermione's hands began to explore her body on their own accord; she felt the change to her bakeneko form under her touch.

"I want your fingers and tongue in my pussy," said her mom breathlessly and from what she heard, her father complied because she heard her mom whimper. Hermione sensually squeezed her breasts and then gently pinched her nipples, easily imagining her father's lips exploring her body, the young cat-girl gasped.

"Ahh . . . that feels so good, deeper, deeper get your fingers in there dear, as deep as you can go," the fully aroused and youthful witch heard as clearly as if she were in the same room, "I'm so turned on I bet you could finger my cervix, tonight. Yes, yes, yes . . . more, more . . . I feel so dirty tonight, I don't care how I might feel tomorrow, I just need you now."

"I want to fuck your face while I lick you, are you game, Emma?" Hermione heard her father ask heatedly, never expecting him to be so hotly crude.

"Where . . . where do you want me?" Her mom asked, hungrily, unknowing their daughter was getting a completely new education about her parents. Oh my god—my parents are so hot and . . . dirty, I never knew, the freshly minted bakeneko thought, her mind clouding in hedonism.

"On your back with your head over the edge of the bed, bunny," Dan instructed and Hermione had a clear image of her mom doing it. Her cat ears heard her parents shifting on their bed and it drove one hand from her breast to her exposed and erect clitoris—larger than she had expected—that beckoned her touch. With thumb and forefinger gently pinching the engorged nub of nerves, Hermione let out a soft growl.

". . . ready?" her dad's eager voice asked.

"Take it slow, it's been awhile since your cock's been down my throat, I need a little time to relax my gag reflex, puppy," her mom breathlessly replied, to her daughter's surprise. Mom can do that, she thought, her mind receding into eroticism, I wonder if she'd teach me—I could practice on dad with mommy—I'm sure Harry would like that; I wonder how he tastes?

"Let me know when to stop, bunny," Hermione heard her dad, then an obvious sucking sound followed by an occasional little gag; soon the mild retching was gone, only a slurping sucking sound remained. The cat-girl was feeling hot and soon her pajamas found their way to the floor; now naked, Hermione knelt on her bed with her knees apart.

"Okay, puppy, I'm good," came her mother's breathless voice, "get down there and get to work on my pussy; just remember I need to breath."

The sucking sound resumed and was shortly joined by another; there was a brief moment when she heard her father say, "You taste so good and you're nectar is flowing tonight dear, I love you so much."

Hermione heard her mom mumble, "Stop talking, I don't want to hear about it, I want to feel it . . . yes, that's it, more, deeper, more . . ."

"I want to lick your ass, bunny, is that okay?" Their daughter heard him ask and the thought of having her ass licked drove her fingers inside; Hermione moaned but she never heard her mom's answer, obviously, she didn't mind because she heard her father. "Your ass is so tasty, you love it when I stick my tongue in, don't you?—want a few fingers?"

The cat-girl heard another mumble from her mom followed by a small gasp, which must have escaped from around her father's penis she imagined plunging in and out of her mother's mouth; the image of one and then maybe two or more fingers pushing past her mom's rear rosebud brought the eavesdropping daughter her first mini climax.

"I . . . I'm about to cu . . . cum, Emma, wh . . . what do you want me t . . . to d . . . do?" Hermione's father asked urgently.

"I want to taste you, puppy, don't hold back . . ." her mother groaned in hunger, obviously her father had pulled back but her mom was quickly silenced, the cat-girl pictured her dad thrusting all the way into her mother's accepting mouth and throat in invitation: the images in the young witch's mind were unbearably broiling.

"A . . . ahh . . . ahhhhh! You're so precious, love; I love you so much," Hermione heard her father say and he obviously meant it.

"You taste as good as always, puppy-Dan," she heard her mother say with the raspy voice of an abused throat, "can you fuck me or do you need a little time?"

"I need a little time; first," he said softly, the cat-girl heard clearly, "I can lick your pussy some more, hun."

"Yes . . . yes, please I love your tongue; make me cum, stick your fingers in me; I'm so turned on . . . make me gush," Hermione heard her mother demand like a slag and her mom's raucous request drove the young witch's fingers deeper into her sex. With her eyes closed, she probed cervix deep and found herself—while not knowing why—pulling her own tail surprisingly hard with her other hand; there was no pain, just a rush of extreme pleasure followed by an urgent need to pee but her bladder wasn't full.

"Go ahead, bunny, let go; drown my face," she heard her father's breathless whisper followed by a long low moan shared by mother and daughter as their bodies' expelled the rewards of ecstasy; a reward the bakeneko wished she was sharing. Hermione collapsed to her side; panting and purring loudly as her heart began to slow.

'Fuck me Dan, I want it hard and doggy style deep," Hermione heard her mother demand, with a voice swamped in need; followed by the sounds of movement on her parents' bed.

"Should I thumb your ass, bunny?" Hermione groaned when she heard her father ask and immediately saw Crookshanks beside her; her cat's face and head were soaking wet and he was purring intently as he cleaned himself. I . . . I wish you were bigger Crookshanks, she thought shamelessly, without a sense of decency, human or otherwise.

"Yessss . . . yessss, deeper Dan, deeper . . . fuck me puppy . . . fuck me hard," Hermione's mom screamed loud enough to be heard without cat-ears, driving the cat-girl's fingers to once again explore the highly sensitive bundle of nerves, which stood as a marker to the crevice of deeper pleasure. She pinched, pulled and viciously twisted her hoodless and puffy clitoris, sending wave after wave of something beyond pain and pleasure; far beyond and far more intoxicating as it flowed through her hypersensitive felinity like an electric current. The young bakeneko, still lying on her side, arched her spine inhumanly backwards and let lose a yowl before stabbing two and then three fingers inside as deeply as she could. Insufficiently satisfying, Hermione added a fourth finger and then pushed so hard that her palm passed between her labia until stopped by the hook, which was the base of her thumb. With one hand virtually inside her quim, she let her fingers intensely explore the deepest recesses of her core as the heel of her palm pushed and rubbed against her clit.

"N . . . not e . . . enough, n . . . need m . . . more to . . . tonight don . . . don't care b . . . 'bout morning," her mother cried out, loudly; she was so deep in her needs and pleasure that she forgot or didn't care that their daughter might hear.

Dan asked, his voice quieter than his wife's, "D . . . do you want me in . . . in your ass tonight, honey?"

"Y . . . yes," she answered, it was an eager breathless whisper.

"I'll take it slow, dear; I don't want to hurt you."

"D . . . d . . . don't care; I . . . It w . . . will h . . . .heal. J . . . just d . . . do it."

"Ready?"

"Yessssss . . ." Hermione heard through the fogged images that came with hearing her mom begging to have her ass fucked. Her mother's 'yes' was followed by a shriek that sent shivers through the cat-girl. I . . . I can't b . . . believe my ears, the young feline-witch thought through the erotic haze filling her mind, m . . . my mom wants dad to f . . . fuck her ass; she's pleading for it. M . . . mom is s . . . such a slut—I . . . I wish d . . . dad could d . . . do me next. She reasoned, as her mind spun intense fantasies of feeling her dad in the same manner her mom was currently enjoying; that that concept was societally repugnant to most people didn't deter her imagination in the least and drifting through the erogenous fog came another chuckle from Crookshanks.

"Honey, y . . . you okay, you're gonna hurt yourself forcing yourself back like that," Hermione vaguely heard as her one hand ferociously stretched and pounded her pussy and her other hand roamed the rest of her semi-catlike body.

"Y . . . you're being t . . . too gentle; d . . . don't wa . . . want gen . , . gentle," she heard her mother's passion broken voice, "st . . . stop making l . . . love to me and j . . . just f . . . fuck me, pup . . . puppy, f . . . fuck m . . . my ass!"

Hermione's bakeneko ears—through the thunder of her own beating heart—heard the semi-rhythmic slap of skin against skin and whatever control her father might have had was now gone as the sound of her parents' fervent coupling seemed to echo through the house; along with the loud rattle of her parents' bedroom door. Before long, the sounds of passion was joined by the distinct smell of sex—hers and her parents'—wafting on the circulating air driven by their home's air-conditioning. The mingling of scents and sounds were intoxicating to the newly born bakeneko, whose mind was utterly subservient to the sensations in her body. The cacophony of moans and breathing; counterpointed by the liquid thrashing of bodies in the throes of passion, reached its crescendo as the family reached its final and well deserved climax in unity and as her parents screamed their releases, Hermione added her voice to theirs in a harmonious caterwaul and growl. Spent, the family collapsed into deboned puddles on their respective beds and, if they could've; her mom and dad would've joined their daughter in the rumblings of a well-earned and satisfied purr while falling to a deep sleep.