Four Isn’t a Crowd
For the @drarrymicrofic prompt, four cats. Not exactly micro, but there you have it.
Four is the loneliest number, he often thinks.
They could be two pairs, but they aren’t. Three heads bent together; black, brown, red. One head set aside, blond. It’s always like this.
There are many things they could be, at a glance. Childhood friends (because, right), a band of misfits (rugged teenage rebels actually fits the bill for once), a glaring of stray cats (feral, perpetually hungry). Black, brown, red, blond, a careless onlooker could mistake them for a team.
They aren’t a team, they’re not even a group. There’s just four of them. Which has to make four the loneliest number.
He knows, he knows; it’s his own damn fault they can’t trust him. His transition seems too quick, his change of heart too abrupt, his penance too forced. They don’t believe him, and he doesn’t blame them for it. It’s no more than he deserves, anyway. When he dreams, it’s of a different order: black and blond, red and brown. And, not or. Perhaps even a whirl of colors, fiercely bright. Four, not three-and-one, not – not this, not alone, not forever.
But it can’t be any other way. He knows; they only keep him for whatever obscure information they still think he has. He hears parts of broken whispers when they bend their heads together, black, brown, red. Horcrux, they say. Find a way, they say. Running out of time, they say. But he doesn’t ask, and they don’t tell him. This is how it works. It’s always like this; three heads bent together, making four the loneliest number of all.
