Chapter Text
Harry groaned as he opened his eyes. What the hell just happened? He remembered going downstairs because Aunt Marge had just got there. He'd been poked, prodded and disparaged as was usual then gone to kitchen where he'd cooked dinner before... Shit. Uncle Vernon was going to kill him.
Shaking his head Harry blinked at the unfamilar sight in front of him? Was that a metal pole? Harry blinked again, aware that he wasn't wearing his glasses. He was surprised to find he could see as well as normal anyway, although it appeared that everything was further away and a lot larger than it should be.
He craned his neck and realised that what he'd thought was a metal pole was the leg of his bed. Despite the fact that it was three times the size and much further away than it had ever been when he'd squeezed himself underneath to hide previously, Harry knew it from the distinct crescent-shaped dent on the shiny-door facing side. Dudley had shoved Harry onto the ground of his bedroom last summer for some minor infraction and had only laughed gleefully at the cracking thud the smaller boy's arm had made when his wrist glanced off the bed.
Now though Harry was somehow completely under the bed with his back to the wall and there was still space between him and the shadowy edge. From his current perspective, the dent was too large, Harry's thin mattress slats were looming over him and the blue-grey carpet was practically shoved up his nostrils.
Shuddering as he tried to make sense of the odd visual input, he realised that he was half lying and half crouching. With his belly to the floor his arms and legs were tucked underneath him at what should've been unnatural angles.
Oddly though, Harry didn't feel any pain. He glanced down to see why, only pausing briefly unable to believe his eyes, before letting out what surely would've been a scream if he hadn't quashed the impulse at the last second.
He didn't need Uncle Vernon trying to get back. That was all the more true now that he'd clearly done something freakish to himself that would warrant being locked in his room for the entirety of the next school-year, let alone the rest of the summer.
Where Harry's arms and legs should've been all he could see was fur, thick black and slightly fluffy. He stood, trembling, and realised that he was crouched like an animal - emerging from under the bed he could balance on his back legs for only a few seconds before he tipped back onto all four limbs.
Worst of all was the swishing sound behind him as he fell back. It felt natural and horribly wrong at the same time as he glanced round to spot a long, thick black tail. Dazedly he noted the elegant curve ended in a spotted white tip before he collapsed back onto his belly on the floor.
Merlin's Underpants he thought. Merlin's spotted, purple, saggy underpants.
(As Ron would say)
How had he managed to do this?
All he remembered thinking in that moment when he'd finished shouting at Marge was that he needed to get away, he desperately needed to run and hide before Uncle Vernon could catch him. Somehow his stupid, stupid brain had taken that thought and run with it.
He wasn't lucky enough to have a mirror in his bedroom, so he had no way to confirm his suspicion but he'd spent enough time around at Mrs Figg's house to realise what he was supposed to be.
Paws, a fluffy tail and everything around him was absolutely massive? He'd only gone and turned himself into a bloody cat.
Probably not even a proper cat if he was going to admit it to himself. Given the slenderness of his small, furry wrists he probably looked like some ridiculously delicate kitten. Merlin, Malfoy would have a right laugh if he could see the great Harry Potter now. A tiny, (mostly) black kitten with little fluffy paws cowering under his own bed and wishing for any possible way out of the situation.
He was gonna blame Professor McGonagall for this one. Couldn't he have magicked himself into a lion or something properly Gryffindor-like? Bloody magic, he grumbled to himself, pacing around in circles trying to get a better view of his unusual back end.
After about ten minutes of pacing and sulking, Harry heard slowly raising voices start to drift up the stairs.
As he listened to Petunia's distinct shrieking he paused, remembering why he had run away in the first place.
There was no point in staying in the house any longer, if Uncle Vernon didn't want to kill him already he absolutely would in a few days when he'd try to force his good-for-nothing nephew to do chores and found only a bedraggled kitten in his place. Harry really didn't think he'd be able to push the lawnmower right now. He might be able to give weeding a go with his new, shiny claws but he doubted the Dursley's would be able to see the light of the situation.
Distancing himself from his admittedly stinky mattress Harry peered around his room, hoping for a flash of inspiration. The cream-coloured door was heavily locked, as per usual, the only magical things he had in his room were books and he doubted that he could lift them up right now, let alone search for spells to fix himself, and the window... the window was open?
He could've sworn he'd closed it earlier after letting Hedwig out. He slinked closer across the carpet and peered up at the seemingly mountainous glass pane above him. Perhaps his tantrum earlier had knocked it open, the wooden frame jutted out at a slightly odd angle and creaked in the humid summer air.
Stretching out his newly-formed front legs, Harry tried to stand on his back two paws and lean against the wall in support, reaching upward to the base of the dusty windowsill. Even with his claws extended he could tell that he was miles off simply getting up there, gaping blue paint stretching in front of him.
Uttering a small surprised grumbling sound, near a growl, he sat back on his haunches and glared above him. He didn't have time for this. The noises downstairs were getting louder again. No doubt Marge would soon be sorted and sending Vernon back up to properly tell him off.
Pacing backward a few steps he jogged clumsily forward and four legs before springing upward with all the hope of an eleven year old boy who flew like a pro his first time on a broomstick but the spectacular grace of a newly-born deer (that had recently been trodden on.)
With Harry's typical luck, this combination did successfully land him on the windowsill.
However, again with his typical luck, he also forgot that he wasn't able to balance very well as of yet and didn't really know how to use his claws. So from the windowsill all three kilos of gangly kitten Potter promptly went tumbling paws over shoulders directly through the open window and into Aunt Petunia's prized bushes below. Yowling.
Thankfully, the horrible screeching noise forcing its way out of Harry's lungs was soon cut off as he realised that, as Uncle Vernon had helpfully demonstrated last year, Aunt Petunia's prized bushes were actually quite comfortable. Also thankfully, he was definitely a cat and had managed to somewhat land on his feet.
Having realised all of this very quickly, Harry knew for sure now that Uncle Vernon would be stomping up to crash open his door and demand to know what was going on. Maybe Uncle Vernon finding him missing wouldn't be too bad, but any of the Dursley's (especially Dudley) finding what they perceived to be a stray cat in their garden could only end one way.
Hint: why would Aunt Petunia keep a broom around when Harry was the one who vacuumed the place.
Padding carefully out of the bush Harry took off at a dead sprint away from Number 4 Privet Drive.
Fuck it, he thought, no one important will be looking for me yet anyway.
---
One hour later Harry had managed to make his way to the run-down local park where he usually escaped from Dudley each summer. After his initial calm exit he'd ended up skidding there in a near-constant panic. He'd veered away from the loud roars of passing vehicles and the pattering feet of local kids - he already knew first-hand how cruel they could be.
He'd been checking over his (furry!) shoulder the whole way and hadn't spotted Uncle Vernon's distinctive bulk at any point. With any luck, they hadn't gone to check his room and so no one would be likely to be following him for a while.
Harry wasn't sure whether the light feeling following that thought was relief or disappointment.
The creaking of rusted metal in the dingy playground around him only exacerbated his melancholy.
Obviously he definitely didn't want to see the Dursleys. A familiar head of red hair or any Professor would be really helpful right about now. Merlin, he'd probably even be happy to see Snape at this point. Harry is pretty sure that the greasy man would likely figure out to change him back into a human just to rub Harry's own stupidity in his face.
Despite last summer, Harry already knew that a patented Weasley rescue was impossible, having received a letter from Ron a few days ago stating that his family had gone on holiday to visit Bill in Egypt. The latter option was equally unlikely. Harry wasn't silly enough to think that all of his teachers lived at Hogwarts over the holidays but they had reason to be out in picturesque Muggle Surrey looking for him.
Yawning, Harry headed over to the base of the red roundabout that looked about five times its usual sizes and scrabbled his way onto a seat. He couldn't exactly slouch on it and swing his feet as normal, finding that his body couldn't even contort that way, but he enjoyed the feeling of the warm air ruffling his fur as he curled himself into a small quivering ball and gazed out.
It should be darker by now he thought as he tucked the twitching white tip of his tail underneath him. The sun had set whilst he was running yet the gloom seemed bright around him. He vaguely remembered reading that cats could see better in the dark as it helped them hunt in a primary school mandated English book but the fact didn't feel very useful at that moment.
Out of all of the things that Harry was expecting of today, transforming into a small, soft and presumably adorable kitten was definitely not one of them.
He'd thought about being an animal in an abstract way long before he knew that magic was real.
Probably in the same way that most kids playing pretend did, the difference was that often Harry's only playmate was his imagination so he tended to be quite good at thinking. He'd created whole worlds alone in his cupboard and often they'd included an arrangement of talking spiders that became his friends.
(That dream had ended with Aragog in second year.)
Other times though, Harry had liked to imagine that an animal would rescue him. He wasn't much of a reader but he had caught plent of Dudley's morning cartoons whilst frying eggs and he'd watched most of the Jungle Book film over at Mrs Figg's house once.
He'd loved that film. It had given him endless of hours of entertainment lying on his lumpy duvet and imagining the tiger crashing through the house after Dudley while Harry danced away into the forest singing about the Bear Necessities. He envisioned himself transforming into a bear and finally swatting his cousing away, gleefully ruminating on the terrified expression on Dudley's face before he'd be able to just lope away with long, powerful strides,
From there he'd be able to live in a Forest like Robin Hood and he could be Little John, just making their own rules and happy to be free. Harry had always thought that he'd be able to play out all of the adventures that he had ever wished if he was a bear.
Nose scrunching, Harry glared down at his new paws. He still hadn't managed to get a glimpse of his reflection yet but somehow he expected that this new, fragile feeling body wouldn't be quite up to the same tasks.
Lazily he stretched a small paw out, unable to resist batting at the fluffy tip of his own tail. It sadly evaded him and Harry was just giving in to his impulse to wriggle around on his side after it when the swingset next to him creaked and the fur on the back of his neck began to prickle.
Instinctively, in the same way that he could feel his whiskers bristling he could feel that there was something else out there.
The air seemed still against Harry's fur. The swings were creaking faster and faster and the very earth seemed to vibrate with tension.
It felt like when Dudley lifted his head from his empty plate some mornings and realised that Harry was the only other person in the kitchen, the only thing standing between him and more food.
There were eyes out there in the soft darkness, eyes out there - watching.
Harry flinched as leaves twitched in the corner of his vision, unease stirring through him as he swung to face the shrubbery.
Where there should've been light rustles of waving lavender, the plants to the side of the park were moving the wrong way, pushed deliberately to the left as if something was slowly moving through them.
There was a predator in the bushes.