January finally gave them one sunny day.
Compared to a regular cat, the cat-linguist form had one big perk: speed.
It didn't feel cold… Sean was sure of that.
So why did Mrs. Norris wear clothes?
Sean figured it was just Filch's wishful thinking, and she was too polite to say no.
In the Great Hall, Michael was dominating with his "Gundakar Knight." Nobody dared put out their "angry, greedy, lecherous" kings anymore; the knight would just snatch them off the board.
Michael swore a black cat brought him the piece. Sean wasn't sure if he was right or wrong.
Either way, the first-years bought it hook, line, and sinker.
At night, Sean often spotted kids on the third floor leaving dried fish under his own statue, praying for an "Arthur King":
—That's the strongest king piece. It can turn any wizard into "Merlin" or "Morgan," either of which can decide the game.
If you had to sum it up: "Game over!" Pick one wizard. Fifty-fifty shot: instant win or instant loss.
The Weasleys announced "Arthur King" was officially live in Wonky Wizard Chess.
Truth? Sean hadn't even made it yet. The twins weren't even pretending it wasn't a wizard lottery anymore.
What really left Sean speechless: one kid left dried fish, ate a Mrs. Norris biscuit, then unconsciously ate his own offering.
…And still thought the lucky black cat granted his wish.
All in all, after Christmas, Hogwarts got a little more fun.
These past few days,
Sean quietly added a new plan to the schedule: visit Hagrid's hut.
It sat right next to [Level High-tier Cat-Linguist Biscuits to Expert]. Right now, for example, Sean was strolling the Quidditch pitch in cat-linguist form.
The castle had this new "Castle Spirit Cat Club." When he had to, Sean avoided the building.
Castle Spirit Cat Club: founded right after Christmas, rubber-stamped by Dumbledore and Deputy Headmistress McGonagall.
Weird thing: normal clubs take one or two months to approve. This one? Signed the same day.
Sean had a strong suspicion he'd been set up.
Quidditch pitch: another soggy, muddy practice.
Sean was waiting for Hagrid, who might show. He was nervous; would the biscuits earn enough goodwill for future Norwegian Ridgeback visits?
Then the pitch erupted:
"Will you two quit messing around?!"
Gryffindor captain Wood bellowed.
"This'll lose us the match! Snape's refereeing; he'll find any excuse to dock Gryffindor points!"
Cat vision is six times sharper than human. Even from far off, Sean saw the Weasleys diving at each other, fake-falling off brooms, eyes huge.
George actually fell when he heard.
"Snape's refereeing?"
Spitting mud, he asked, "Since when does he ref Quidditch? If we can beat Slytherin, he'll never call it fair."
The rest of the team landed beside George, grumbling.
"Not my fault," Wood said. "We follow rules, he's got no excuse."
Sean pretty much knew what came next: the Forbidden Forest plot, then Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback.
Too bad; by the time Sean got back to the castle, Hagrid still hadn't stepped out of the forest edge.
He'll come, Sean knew. Soon Hagrid would head in for supplies. Patience.
Evening: a few leaps up the stairs. Past gleaming armor, he glimpsed a few Slytherins coming up from the dungeons.
Didn't think much of it. A couple flashes later, he was back in the Hope Hut. Neville's charms were coming along great; Hermione was patiently tutoring.
Every now and then they asked Sean a question; [Expert] level meant he could answer easy.
…
Another crisp January morning. The castle's thick stone walls kept the cold out.
Torches crackled in the corridors. By the Fat Lady's portrait, a cluster of first-years rubbed their hands, giggling at their breath fogging in the air.
Where the fireplace roared, crimson armchairs and thick rugs were toasty warm.
A black cat sat with eyes closed, trying to sense the world with long white whiskers.
Cat whiskers: super-evolved sensors. Navigation, spatial measurement, balance, environment detection, mood signals, hunting aid, eye protection. They even pick up tiny air currents.
Basically overpowered.
Sean couldn't do it. So once a week, Professor McGonagall happily helped him master his Animagus form.
A tabby cat sat gracefully on a tiny Transfiguration cushion, watching the black cat bonk his head, then slowly curl her own whiskers in amusement.
The black cat picked it up fast. Next: squeezing through narrow gaps.
Right outside the door, down the corridor:
"Neville Longbottom! Perfect; I've been dying to practice this spell. You'll do nicely. Come here!"
A platinum-blond Slytherin called.
His two goons snickered.
Neville's round face went pale. He started forward, then stopped.
"I don't want trouble," he mumbled.
Malfoy kept mocking:
"Oh right, Gryffindor Quidditch picks the pitiful ones.
Like Potter, no parents. The Weasley twins, no money; you should join, Neville Longbottom, because you've got no brain."
Neville flushed crimson. He looked up.
"You can't say that…"
His stutter barely started before Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle burst into ugly laughter.