January rolled in, and Hogwarts suddenly had more cats, owls, and even a deer or two wandering the halls.
Filch couldn't wrap his head around it. Who was dumb enough to think turning into a deer was a smart way to sneak around after curfew?
Probably ate the wrong cookie, Sean figured.
Every now and then, to keep Filch's office from turning into a wizard-kid storage unit—or to spare the professors a mountain of paperwork—Sean would quietly "rescue" the lighter offenders.
Like the Hufflepuffs who lost track of time playing wizard chess.
That day, as he stepped into the corridor, a cheerful chime rang in his head:
> [You gained the affection of the magical creature Kneazle (Mrs. Norris) at Expert level. Affection +50]
> [Magical Creature Kneazle (Mrs. Norris): Affectionate (Proficient) (10/9000)]
"Phew—"
Sean let out a long breath. After more than a week of effort, he'd finally maxed out Mrs. Norris's affection quest.
Now he could make the wizarding world's very first magical creature transformation cookie!
He could already hear the Weasleys' pitch:
> "Lost in the wild? Worried about your kid? Kneazle Cookie—turns your little wizard into a direction-savvy pro!"
But before the cookies hit the shelves, he had to report to Professor Tyra.
Back in Hope Cottage, the ritual was the heart of alchemy. Once he truly understood Kneazles, Sean refined his ritual further.
It took longer now, but it could finally channel a magical creature's power into a wizard's body.
Three days later, the first Kneazle Cookie was done. It even purred softly when you held it.
> [You practiced crafting a Kneazle Cookie at Apprentice level. Proficiency +1]
The panel's voice was music to his ears. Sean's tense shoulders finally relaxed.
Hard work was paying off.
Sure, the wizard-will issue still stumped him—normal wizards lost their sense of self in animal form—but he might be different in cat shape.
Soon, a sleek black cat padded across the snow. It looked down at its paws, confused for a second, then its green slit-eyes lit up with very human glee.
As a Kneazle, Sean felt a new kind of instinct kick in.
He found Justin in the kitchens without trying. Tracked Hermione to the library in minutes. Even sniffed out Harry on the Quidditch pitch.
Classes were back, and so was Quidditch practice.
Gryffindor captain Oliver Wood was stricter than ever.
Even in the endless sleet after the snowstorms, Wood's fire never dimmed. The Weasley twins grumbled that he was turning into a training tyrant, but Harry was all in.
"If we beat Hufflepuff next match," Harry muttered in the locker room corner, "we take Slytherin in the House Cup final. First time in seven years."
Sean didn't get the Quidditch hype, but watching Gryffindor rally like that? Yeah. That felt like youth.
So the black cat slipped away through the rain and snow, leaving only dainty plum-blossom paw prints behind.
He was dressed—under a Disillusionment Charm, of course.
Alchemy Office.
A young wizard just appeared down the hall. No one saw him get there.
That's the beauty of being an Animagus. During Voldemort's first rise, Professor McGonagall used it to spy for the Ministry. And a certain beetle used it to scoop headlines—writing The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, plus a bunch of garbage about Hermione and Harry.
Hermione eventually caught her, trapped her in an Unbreakable Charm jar, and didn't let her out until the Hogwarts Express pulled away.
The wizarding world still had zero real rules for Animagi. Otherwise, Sirius Black never would've broken out of Azkaban.
As for that registration form…
Sean didn't trust a list the British Ministry couldn't even keep four or five people on.
A crowd of upper-years spilled out of the alchemy classroom again.
"Payton, you hear? The International Alchemy Conference is this year…"
A Ravenclaw with a house scarf was buzzing.
"If you had a brain, you'd know it's got nothing to do with us," Pamela Payton shot back, raising an eyebrow. "The youngest alchemist Hogwarts ever sent was Headmaster Dumbledore. You think you're him?"
Every year, some sixth-year got big ideas—thought they could waltz into the big leagues like young Dumbledore.
They didn't know the glow he'd had: Head Boy, Prefect, Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, Gold Award for Groundbreaking Contribution at the Cairo International Alchemy Conference, and youth rep for the Wizengamot.
Give them a few more months of alchemy, and the daydreams would crash.
"Oh, I'm no Dumbledore," the Ravenclaw admitted, "but the professor didn't rip my essay today. That's progress, right, Payton? If I keep this up, maybe…"
The four alchemy elective kids nodded solemnly.
You had to have dreams in this subject.
Professor Tyra, top-tier alchemist, only gave three grades: disappointment, criticism, or silence.
Today? Silence. That was basically a gold star in their little circle.
"You'll learn," Payton sighed, "even among all magic, alchemy demands the most raw talent…"
She was done talking. Sometimes she wondered if these kids even belonged in the class.
If they had any sense, they'd notice the professor was always in a good mood before this lesson.
Why?
"If you're still clinging to fairy tales," Payton said, walking off, "hang around the classroom door a little longer."
Her Eternal Ink still had flaws. She'd grind it out the hard way—no talent, just effort. That's what she believed.
Rain hit the snow outside as Sean stepped into the alchemy classroom.