When January arrived, there were more cats and owls in Hogwarts—there was even a deer.
Mr. Filch truly couldn't fathom how anyone could be foolish enough to think turning into a deer would make night-wandering easier.
Probably ate the wrong biscuit, Sean thought.
Sometimes—so Filch's office wouldn't fill up with first-years, or to spare the professors some busywork—Sean would take charge of a few "minor offenders."
Like the Hufflepuffs who accidentally played wizard's chess past curfew.
That day, as Sean stepped into the corridor, his panel chimed pleasantly:
[You gained affinity with the magical creature Kneazle (Mrs. Norris) at an Expert standard. Affinity +50]
[Magical Creature – Kneazle (Mrs. Norris): Close (Adept) (10/9000)]
"Whew—"
After more than a week, he'd finally finished the affinity task for Mrs. Norris.
Next, he could craft the wizarding world's first Magical Creature Transformation Biscuit!
He couldn't help imagining the Weasleys' ad copy, something like:
"Worried about getting lost out there? Kneazle Biscuit—help your child grow into a wizard with a sense of direction!"
But before the biscuit went public, he'd have to report to Professor Tayra.
In the Hope Nook.
Ritual is the heart of alchemy. Once he knew Kneazles well enough, Sean refined his rite again.
It took more time now, but it could finally bear the magical force of a creature and manifest it through a wizard.
The first Kneazle Biscuit was finished three days later—even its appearance had changed; it was a biscuit that purred.
[You practiced crafting a Kneazle Biscuit at an Apprentice standard. Proficiency +1]
As the panel chimed, Sean's taut nerves finally eased.
Long effort had finally yielded something.
Though the question of wizardly will remained unresolved, Sean had a hunch: ordinary wizards might not preserve will—but a wizard with a cat form just might.
Soon a black cat appeared in the snow. It blinked at itself in puzzlement; then those green slit-pupils showed unmistakable human delight.
Once a Kneazle, Sean could clearly feel a unique intuition.
He found Justin in the kitchens without effort, Hermione in the library, and even Harry at the Quidditch pitch.
With term underway, Quidditch practice resumed.
Oliver Wood's demands were stricter than ever. The Weasley twins were grumbling that Wood was becoming a drill maniac—but Harry was firmly on Wood's side now.
"If we win the next match against Hufflepuff, we can take Slytherin in the Cup for the first time in seven years," Harry muttered in a corner of the changing room.
Sean didn't find Quidditch all that fun, but seeing Gryffindor united like that, he suddenly thought—maybe this is what youth is.
A black cat padded from the pitch through sleet and snow, leaving behind a string of little plum-blossom pawprints.
The wind and snow were heavy, but the cat was wearing clothes—only hidden by a Disillusionment Charm.
Alchemy Office.
A small wizard's silhouette appeared not far away; no one noticed how he had come to be standing there.
That was the stealth of an Animagus. In Voldemort's first rise, Professor McGonagall used that to spy for the Ministry; and a certain beetle used it to scoop countless headlines and pen The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, spinning slander about Hermione, Harry, and others.
In the end Hermione caught her and kept her trapped in a jar with a Sticking Charm until the Hogwarts Express pulled away.
The wizarding world has never had a real countermeasure against Animagi—or Sirius Black wouldn't have cleared Azkaban so handily.
As for that registry…
Sean didn't think much of a list that had missed four or five people just in Britain.
Crowds of upper-years spilled out of the alchemy classroom door again.
"Peyton, have you heard? The International Alchemy Congress is happening—this year…"
A Ravenclaw in a house scarf said.
"If you had any sense, you'd know it has nothing to do with us. The youngest alchemist in the congress's history from Hogwarts was Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. Do you think you can match him?" Pamela Peyton arched a brow.
Every year there were sixth-years who believed they could be like the young Headmaster Dumbledore and attend a conference of that tier.
They had no idea what a blinding aura Dumbledore had in his day—Head Boy, Prefect, the Barnabas Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, the Cairo International Alchemy Congress Gold Medal for Pioneering Contribution, and the British youth delegate to the Wizengamot.
After a bit more alchemy, they'd realize just how fanciful they were.
"Oh, I certainly can't match the Headmaster, but the professor didn't criticize my homework today—that means I've improved, right, Peyton? If I keep this up, maybe I…" said the Ravenclaw, and the four alchemy electives all nodded.
A little dreaming is required of anyone studying alchemy.
As for Professor Tayra, a premier alchemist—her evaluations of students boiled down to disappointment, critique, and tacit acceptance.
Today they had clearly earned a high mark—worth noting in the tight little alchemy circle.
"You'll learn that even among all magical branches, alchemy demands talent the most…" Pamela Peyton had no desire to keep talking. Sometimes she doubted whether this lot even qualified for the elective.
If they had a bit of insight, they'd recognize the professor's good mood every time this class rolled around.
As for the reason…
"If you still have any naïve notions, why not linger at the alchemy classroom door a little longer?" she said, and left the corridor.
Her Everlasting Ink still had flaws; she would put in more hours—without talent, a wizard could only rely on effort. She believed that firmly.
As rain tapped snow outside the window, Sean stepped into the alchemy classroom.