Eight ~ Life as a Cat

Myrtle was slowly becoming less dramatic, and increasingly melancholy, as though the entire Valentine's Day Ball incident had left her mysteriously incomplete. While once her weeping had been something public, something done for attention and perhaps for sympathy, but it changed subtly, and now she stayed alone when she cried; while once she had protested outrageously whenever anyone insulted her, now she quietly accepted it as though it were her lot in life to be called ugly and myopic.

I was the one she came to. Cliona, while she cared, had this habit of making jokes to defer serious conversation; Cora, while concerned, struggled herself and sometimes could not find the energy to talk to Myrtle. Sometimes at night, when everyone else was long asleep, Myrtle would shake me gently awake and bring me down to the common room, and we would speak at length. I learned more about her than anyone else knew. I had known, of course, that she was Muggle-born like myself, and that she had several siblings, but I soon knew that she was grievously poor, and spent summers working in a shop in London, that most of her clothes were sewn and mended manually – whether by thread or by magic. I learned that she grew up playing football and rugby with her brothers and that was why she thought she was so blocky and unfeminine. She actually grew to have quite an affinity for Snappers and would steal morsels of food for the plant, feeding it at intervals while we spoke into the night.

I resumed my Animagus project with renewed vigour, practicing every other night and studying for the OWLs the other times; though I hated to admit it, being relieved of my prefect duties lessened the strain on me substantially. I attempted a full transformation again in early March, and that time I was able to sustain it for nearly fifteen minutes, and, after that, my times grew steadily longer until I was able to shift for a few hours or more. I was still not wholly comfortable with the cat, but it slowly grew to feel more like me in a very odd sense. I found that my thoughts ran disconnected sometimes in my feline form, and that I could ignore the appetities and habits common to a cat – once a mouse skittered across the floor of the Transfiguration room and I caught and killed it before I could think any better of it. My mind as a cat was in a precarious state between reason and animal intuition.

Olive Hornby seemed to have forgotten any forays into civility I might have made with her. One fateful morning began with her walking casually by our table and grinding a bit of egg onto Myrtle's hair. "Maybe that'll help you learn, you great hulking duffer!" she called, and walked away cackling with her friends.

Cliona, on the other hand, was walking around in a miserable haze, having convinced herself that Hufflepuff would defeat Ravenclaw in the next day's Quidditch match. "We'll have to play those great idiots in the finals, I know it," she wailed. "Ravenclaw's just not that good; their one Chaser dropped the bloody Quaffle last game for no reason except that it was getting too heavy under his arm. There wasn't even anyone nearby!"

It was then when I got the idea – looking at Cliona in the throes of cursing the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. "You never can tell," I said slowly, slyly. "Ravenclaw might find that they're more talented than they think."

Cliona gave me a surprised look. "You planning something, McGonagall?"

"Wait and see," I told her cryptically. "Say, where do they keep their equipment?"

She gave me a knowing grin and told me all about it.

After dinner I found myself trying to assuage my worries through chess. In truth, I was having doubts about my prank; surely Professor Dumbledore would be able to figure out who had done it and I was doubtful that his slight respect for mischief would extend so far. I'd turned it all over and over in my head during my classes, to the point where Professor Binns had asked, "Are you well, Miss McGowan?" I played Hagrid and allowed him to beat me soundly – it was worth it just to see the delight on his grizzled face – and then distractedly let Cora feel her way to a victory.

"I've got to study now, Minerva," Cora apologized after we'd finished.

I started to gather up our pieces. Myrtle, who had been sitting and watching us play, helped me, and the little men snarled at her. "Gently, love, gently!" one of them pleaded desperately as she dropped it on its head.

"You shouldn't let Hagrid win. Or her, either."

I lifted my head to see Riddle standing across from me, looking angry as usual. "Don't watch me if it bothers you," I replied. "I like to play – it helps me think – and no one will want to play me if I win all the time. It's none of your concern."

"You wouldn't stand a chance against some genuine competition."

I shook my head with disdain. "Don't be vain, Riddle."

"I'm only truthful."

"Have a game, then," I invited with a scowl on my face. I don't know what made me say that just then, only that I felt reckless and dangerous with the encroaching night and the plans that went along with it, and that I wanted dearly to prove him wrong. "If you think you're smarter than I am, have a game. Use Cora's pieces."

Cora's pieces looked up at him with something like fear on their little stone faces.

"Fine," he snarled, and slid into the seat across from me.

I started a bit; for all my challenging, I had expected him to snottily refuse. "I bet you've never played anyone with real skill," I said before I could think better of it. "That group of Slytherin sycophants you keep company with certainly aren't the brightest students ever to grace these doors."

He snorted. "Of course, McGonagall – and Rubeus Hagrid is the absolute pinnacle of intelligence." Deftly, he moved out his knight. "Play."

I did, countering by moving out a pawn. We played the game in silence, occasionally darting glances at one another, both of us frowning. A small knot of people surrounded us – a few of Riddle's aforementioned sycophants, a pair of Hufflepuff second-years, and Myrtle. Her covert (and not-so-covert) looks at Riddle were disturbing; she studied him in profile as though watching a master chess player at work. I tried my best to ignore her, making moves quickly to annoy him and his slow, deliberate method of playing.

The game ended quite unsatisfactorily.

"Stalemate," Riddle hissed, looking furious.

"I must be tired," I snapped, and left the Great Hall before he could answer me.

When everyone was asleep, I used my key to get into the Transfiguration room, so no one would see me, and changed into the tabby. By then I was at the point where I was able to hold the form for some time, even though it was still rather disorienting. My wand wouldn't transform into fur along with my clothes, so I bent and held it in my mouth like a dog fetching a stick. I sneaked through the hallways and dodged any ghosts who might have seen me, and I made my way out to the Quidditch pitch in the dead of the night.

A simple Alohomora charm allowed me access into the locker room, where the teams' robes and equipment lay untouched and unguarded, blue in the early spring moonlight. I transformed and performed the appropriate charms as quickly as I could, and found that I was quite maliciously and mischieviously looking forward to seeing the results of my work. "That'll cheer you up, Cliona," I said aloud before changing back into the cat and slipping out.

On the way back to the classroom, I saw something very curious. There was a long, thin stream of spiders steadily pouring out the window, lined up like ants in a procession. I swatted my paw at them, mostly with bewilderment, but they continued onward as though driven by some exterior force. I shrugged (as much as a feline can shrug). I had to get back to the classroom.

I nudged my way in, but before I could transform back safely and get back to Gryffindor Tower, I heard the voice of Professor Dumbledore echoing through the cavernous hallway that led to the classroom. It was well past midnight and I knew I'd be in trouble if Professor Dumbledore found me up and out of bed, especially with my suspension. I quickly darted behind one of the thick two-person desk and lay down with my paws tucked beneath me. I could feel my whiskers trembling and, in spite of everything, I could not help but wonder at the oddness of the sensation.

It did not occur to me until it was too late that Professor Dumbledore, while admittedly eccentric, would not be talking to himself in the hallway. Before I could even think, he strode into the room – followed by a thin, lanky man in royal purple robes. I would have gasped if that were possible; it was Julius Applethorne, the Minister of Magic.

"But you were a brilliant researcher," the Minister was arguing. He closed the door behind them; I had no hope of darting out. "The dragon's blood and all; you're famous. Surely you must have some inkling of how he's done it—"

"I don't," Dumbledore said curtly. "Unless there are other matters to discuss—"

"The girl, of course."

"Which girl?"

"You know perfectly well. The student. The one in training." He looked around the room quickly. "The Animagus."

"She—"

"What form has the student taken?" the Minister pressed.

"A house cat," Professor Dumbledore said. There was an uncomfortable tilt to his voice. "She is not yet fully ready," he added quickly. "I don't think she has quite learned how to separate her mind from the beast's mind. She's been working—"

The Minister held up his hand. "Spare me, Albus. Please inform me as soon as you feel that she has reached her full potential."

"I shall." His voice sounded different – shaky and wrong-footed. In a flash, the Minister was gone, and Professor Dumbledore stood alone in front of the door, frozen like a statue and frowning.

I made a quick decision and turned back into a human before I could talk myself out of it. I needed to know what was happening, and even the fact that I could get in trouble wasn't important in that split second. "Professor?"

He started. "What – what are you doing here, Miss McGonagall?"

"I should ask the same," I retorted. I thought of a lie quickly. "I have no classes in the morning tomorrow, and I figured that my free access to this room extended to all hours of the day. Especially since I haven't – what was it? – quite learned how to separate my mind from the cat's."

"You heard everything."

"Enough. I'm sorry, Professor," I said, and even I was shocked at the acid in my tone, "but not being a prefect in the last two weeks has granted me a certain dislike for decorum. I have been spending months documenting this project, documenting a false project to cover up the real one, and having my strength and health tested by transformation after transformation, and all the while I have been doing this without question. And now I find you conferring with the Minister of Magic in the middle of the night, talking about me and my potential. I demand to know what's going on." I took a deep breath. "Oh, I should never have agreed to this in the first place without knowing."

Professor Dumbledore only looked at me for perhaps a minute, then moved his gaze away, as if he were ashamed. He sagged against his desk and made a beckoning motion with his hand. "Please, sit. I should not have kept you in the dark."

"I'll stand."

"I would speak to you as an adult, Minerva," he said wearily, still not looking at me. His use of my first name did not escape me. "When you came to me after Christmas with the news that you might be leaving, I was aghast. I tried to counsel you as best I could, and since then I have felt quite physically ill about myself. You see, your value here extends far beyond your attachment to Hogwarts and your love of learning."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"The Ministry needs you. More specifically, they need your skills as an Animagus."

"I knew that. But why?" I felt chilled, but surely I hadn't expected the reasons to be benign? I had blithely gone on training, conveniently forgetting – or perhaps ignoring –that the Ministry had wanted Professor Dumbledore to start the project.

He removed his spectacles and polished them at length, as though he were trying to find a way to phrase what he would say next. "Have you heard of Grindelwald?"

"Yes, of course. He's the watch and warden of Azkaban prison. His school portrait is on the wall leading up to our dormitories – he was a Gryffindor round sixty years ago." I said this all in a very cautious tone; I was unsure of where this conversation was heading. It occurred to me then that Professor Dumbledore must have been schoolmates with old Grindelwald, but I didn't ask.

"That's correct, except he is no longer the watch and warden of Azkaban."

"What? But that's ridiculous – surely the Daily Prophet would have reported a change in post."

Professor Dumbledore shook his head somberly. "I expect that they don't even know. I believe we've all underestimated Grindelwald's intelligence. He's been off post for more than a year, and no one knows where he is now. The Ministry's best Aurors are—"

"Hang on," I interrupted. "Aurors? What has he done?"

He chose not to answer that question. "Minerva, you must understand that I never intended for it to go this far. The Ministry has been equally as secretive with me as I have with you, and I would have never agreed to allow you to undertake this – this project – if I had known what they wanted."

"I don't understand. What do they want?"

He sighed again. "They want a brilliant mind in Transfiguration, someone bright and dedicated enough to complete an Animagus transformation, and they want someone young enough, someone relatively unquestioning, and that is you. They want you to finish your training this year and then work as a spy against Grindelwald. In your Animagus form you will be able to access places even the best wizards can't get to."

I stood there silently, unable to process all of this at once.

"I told you at the outset that you would not be obligated to do anything. That stands."

"But—" I picked one question from the thousands that seemed to be swimming round inside my head. "What has he done? Grindelwald, I mean?"

"Do you remember talking about the Muggle war? Telling me that you wished Muggles were as civilised as wizards and witches? Well, we seem to be equally savage in matters of warfare. Grindelwald has disappeared into the east, and, by what accounts we have, he is gathering an army there."

"For – what purposes?"

"We don't quite know. Our best guess is this. You see, Grindelwald was a Muggle-born and—"

There was at that moment a loud crash out in the corridor. Feeling more than a little spooked, I sprang to the doorway and peered outside into the darkness. I caught a glimpse of something, the tail of end of something, vanishing. "Someone's there," I whispered.

Instantly, Professor Dumbledore pushed past me, his blue robes swishing and disappearing into the dark of the hallway. Nervously, I followed him. There was a sick, dreadful lurch in my stomach, partly from fear and partly because I was shell-shocked over what had been revealed to me.

"Do you see anything?"

"No, there's nothing here," I whispered. Inexplicably, I though of the creeping trail of spiders I'd seen, leaving through the window.

"Yet that sound—" Dumbledore scanned the corridor. I could barely see him; it was too dim for me to make out anything but his dark form against the equal blackness of the hallway.

"Perhaps – the castle shifting?"

He either ignored me or didn't hear me. "Lumos," he whispered, and a brilliant white beam of light shot out of the tip of his wand. He held his lit wand up to the wall, walking slowly, examining each piece of wall and floor, until he gasped – actually gasped. Scattered on the ground was the source of the noise – a broken statue, fragmented around the floor into dust and shards. He'd come to a low spot where three words – one short sentence scrawled in high red letters – glistened against the old stone:

The chamber wakes.