C10: Transfiguration Lesson and Tabby Cat
Monday brought the first Transfiguration class of the term.
When John awoke, the first thing he saw was Tom's wide, affectionate tongue licking his cheek like a loyal hound. Still groggy, he shuffled toward the desk and dumped a generous scoop of dog food into the bowl, watching the Cerberus pup wag its tail happily.
John splashed cold water on his face in the boys' lavatory, glancing up into the cracked mirror above the sink. Something tugged at the back of his mind.
"Bugger… Today's Transfiguration!"
Last night's unauthorized late-night wander through the castle corridors, combined with his conditioning exercise near the Forbidden Forest, had left him exhausted. He'd passed out without even changing.
Dashing back to the room, John noticed the enchanted alarm clock tipped over on the floor, thoroughly drenched in Tom's drool.
No wonder it hadn't woken him—Tom had mistaken it for a chew toy.
Throwing on his black Slytherin robes and adjusting his green-and-silver tie, John stepped into the now-empty common room. The flickering torchlight reflected in the still waters of the Black Lake outside.
In the dungeon corridors, he found himself once again envying Fred and George Weasley. Their uncanny ability to find secret passages and shortcuts through Hogwarts was both maddening and admirable. Fortunately, John's own physical fitness made up for the lack of enchanted maps and prankster intuition.
By the time he reached the Great Hall, the four long house tables were still abuzz with breakfast chatter.
Hermione Granger sat at the Gryffindor table, scanning the crowd with her usual urgency. When she spotted John, she waved him over with a prim smile.
Sliding into the empty seat next to her, John nodded politely and glanced between her and Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, both of whom were still caught in an unspoken standoff with her likely stemming from the troll incident in the girls' lavatory the week prior.
"Where's Neville? Overslept again?" John asked, biting into a piece of toast slathered in marmalade.
"He's looking for Trevor. Lost him again in the common room," Hermione replied crisply, wiping a bit of butter from the corner of her mouth.
She was eating slower than usual, clearly waiting for John, a rare thing for someone who usually sprinted to class to sit front row center.
John speared a bit of scrambled egg, sighed, and said, "I think I know what I'm getting Neville for Christmas—a bloody terrarium."
Just then, he noticed the smear of butter still clinging to Hermione's cheek. He pointed discreetly to the corner of his own mouth. Flushing a vivid red, Hermione quickly dabbed it away with a napkin, then looked away with faux indignation.
Moments later, Neville Longbottom stumbled into the Great Hall, out of breath and flustered, clutching his Remembrall. As always, it glowed a bright red.
John arched a brow. "Let me guess. You don't remember what you forgot?"
Neville nodded miserably.
John looked him over. "Neville… you're not wearing your robe."
Neville's eyes widened in horror as he looked down at his undershirt and slacks, then dashed off toward Gryffindor Tower without another word.
"Fifth time this week," John muttered, watching him vanish past the suits of armor.
…
John entered the Transfiguration classroom with mixed feelings. He had missed the previous lesson after being detained by Professor Snape for a hallway duel with a Ravenclaw boy who insulted Tom.
He regretted missing the introductory lesson. Transfiguration intrigued him. Controlled, precise, disciplined like a firearm, it was a spell of intention and sharp execution.
Slytherin green and Gryffindor red were neatly divided, both houses sharing the lesson. Hermione, already seated near the front, had saved him a spot, but the only available seats were front row center.
He hesitated—then sat.
That's when he noticed the tabby cat perched on the professor's desk. It stared at him with intelligent, unblinking eyes. The distinct square-shaped markings around its eyes looked oddly familiar.
As a former assassin and current plush enthusiast, John had a soft spot for cats. Before his death in the Muggle world, he'd once fought a squad of hitmen because one had kicked a stray kitten.
Instinct overrode caution.
From his pocket, he produced a dried cat treat—pilfered from Filch's supply meant for Mrs. Norris—and slowly approached the feline.
The class watched in stunned silence as John knelt and offered the strip.
"This is a treat. Wanna try it?"
He instantly realized how bad that sounded—like some creepy uncle in a trench coat.
Before anyone could laugh, the cat leapt off the desk and transformed mid-air, limbs elongating and robes materializing, until Professor Minerva McGonagall stood before him in all her formidable glory.
"Mr. Wick," she said crisply, brushing imaginary dust from her tartan robes, "perhaps you'd prefer to sit before I transfigure you into a footstool."
Several students gasped. A few Gryffindors clapped.
John froze mid-motion, staring at her square spectacles, the exact shape of the cat's facial markings.
He turned, face blank, and sat down.
Mentally, he kicked himself. Animagus. McGonagall's form a tabby cat with spectacle-shaped markings—was practically Hogwarts 101.
Note to self: always check if a cat is a person before offering it snacks.
Slytherins sat stiffly, too stunned to mock him. Even Draco Malfoy seemed unsure how to respond. Meanwhile, across the aisle, Harry looked at John as though he had just met someone more impulsive than himself.
Hermione's shoulders trembled with laughter, her bushy hair shaking like a lion cub.
At that moment, John became more than just the odd Slytherin transfer.
He was the kid who tried to feed McGonagall a treat.
…
The lesson today focused on object transfiguration.
Each student was given a box of paper clips, their assignment: transform one into a matchbox mouse.
John stared at his clip, remembering how McGonagall had once turned her desk into a pig in the movie. The process required focus, intent, and imagination.
He concentrated. His wand twitched. The paperclip shivered, then popped into the air, landing with a squeak.
A small grey mouse sat on the desk—still, but undeniably rodent-shaped.
Professor McGonagall swept by. "Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Wick. An impressive result for your first full lesson."
John blinked. He hadn't expected praise.
Hermione stared at her own partially-morphed paperclip—a lump with ears and sighed.
After class, she cornered him in the corridor. "How did you manage it? Transfiguration is one of the most complex magical disciplines!"
John hesitated. He couldn't exactly say "I'm reincarnated and trained like a war monk."
So he said, "I watched a lot of McGonagall's demos. Repetition helps."
She didn't press—thankfully.
As they walked, John's gaze drifted to a medieval suit of armor in the hallway alcove. Its broadsword glinted under the torchlight.
"John? What are you staring at?" Hermione asked, noticing his narrowed eyes.
A nearby painting—a portrait of Sir Cadogan—peered down suspiciously.
John rubbed his chin. "That sword looks like good resistance training."
Sir Cadogan nearly fell from his frame in disbelief.
Armor was bulky and impractical for running laps, but a blade? A blade could be strapped to the back and doubled as a weight set.
"Think I'll borrow it tonight," he muttered with a gleam in his eye.
…
Hermione dragged John to the library after dinner.
Madam Irma Pince watched them like a hawk. Whispering too loudly or misplacing a book was enough to get broom-swatted, as Neville had learned after belching too loud from a Bertie Bott's binge.
John grabbed a copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard to blend in while mapping the Restricted Section's perimeter. Hermione, unaware, was already nose-deep in A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration.
When night came, John crept from his bed, careful not to wake the other Slytherin first-years.
He returned to the hallway and found the armor.
By morning, it was missing its sword.
Mr. Filch was livid, convinced the Weasley twins had struck again.
Only John and the terrified armor knew the truth.
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