Chapter 1
The Muggles in the neighborhood don't know Minerva's secret. The adults just look at her with pity and whisper that the poor girl is touched in the head- Mr. and Mrs. McGonagall are strange, and madness must be hereditary. The children laugh at her. The daft child sits on the street corner and talks to cats!
But Minerva doesn't mind their closed minds. They know nothing about her world beyond their mundane lives.
She's a witch, just like her mum. She's different.
"Special," Papa would tell her. "My special little girl."
There's one Muggle, a kind old man with white hair, thinning in most places, and leather skin that delivers the milk. Paul, he's called.
Minerva loves him. He's not like the others.
Perhaps he understands her isolation from the community. Paul's been alone since his wife died at the turn of the century, and he always has a warm smile for the young oddlet when he passes her by.
"Little cat girl," he croaks sweetly, slipping her a bottle of milk for her furry stray companions.
"Haven't the money to pay you," she says, blushing, tugging anxiously at her dark curls.
Paul just laughs, sitting beside her. His knotted old hands, stiff and twisted with arthritis, stroke a fuzzy, patchwork cat.
Minerva wishes she could heal his hands. The cupboard is full of so many odds and ends. Surely her mother could brew him a cure.
Of course, she isn't allowed. The Statute of Secrecy is in place for a reason. That's what her father says, at least. Minerva doesn't understand, but she'll pretend to.
"Pay me with a dream," Paul chuckles.
It's a deal they've set up over the months. If she made them into dreams, Minerva could tell him her secrets. Her would would be written off as the imagination of a lonely seven year old.
She closes her eyes, face squishing together in thought.
"When I'm older," Minerva says, "I want to be a cat."
Paul lets out a ragged laugh, ending with a fit of coughs. He sounds worse these days.
Minerva is young, but she's no fool. She knows their friendship will be short. Paul is fading a little more each week, old age taking its toll on his diminished health.
Then she really will be alone.
"A cat, huh?" Paul asks, tucking his linen handkerchief neatly into his coat pocket. He gives the girl his usual smile, a genuine one, not the tragic smile other Muggle adults have for her. "Then you'll be a proper little cat girl, won't you?"
She beams, eyes wide with girlish wonder. "Aye!"
"And how do you go about becoming a cat?"
"Practice," she replies before making a soft mewling sound.
The cats around her look up, ears and tails twitching, mewling in response.
The old man laughs fondly and pats her head. "You'll make a fine cat someday," he tells her, climbing to his feet with a pained groan. "Best be on my way. Milk to deliver."
Minerva looks at him curiously. "Do the others pay in dreams?" she wonders aloud.
Paul's smile turns sad. It's not a sadness at the girl's strange mind, but at himself. "I'm an old man, little one," he sighs. "Old men can't survive on dreams alone."
With that, he hobbles along, humming a ballad unfamiliar to Minerva, but she doesn't think it sounds like a happy tune.
The next morning, her mum has that look. Forced smile and soft eyes, an expression reserved for when something bad has happened.
"Paul passed away last night, Minnie," she says quietly, touching a cold hand to her daughter's cheek.
Minerva bolts from the house with tears in her eyes. She sits on the curb in the company of her cats, crying until her father comes along and scoops the distressed girl up, carrying her back to the house.
For a week, she refuses to leave her room unless necessary.