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Harry had never meant to turn into a kitten.
In his defense, no one meant to turn into a kitten. He’d been aiming for something cooler—something that could leap across the Forbidden Forest with power and mystery. Maybe a stag like his dad. Maybe a wolf, or even an owl. Anything dignified.
But instead, after hours of concentration in the empty classroom he’d borrowed from the dueling club, Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Defender of the Light, and Occasional Chosen One… became a ball of fur that could fit into a teacup.
His first thought was Brilliant!
His second was Oh no.
His third was Why do my paws look like this?
He wobbled forward on unsteady legs, tail twitching wildly as he tried to remember how walking worked. His reflection in a bit of discarded armor revealed enormous green eyes, round face, and fur so black it gleamed blue in the candlelight. He looked like one of Mrs. Figg’s kittens.
If Hermione ever found out, he’d never hear the end of it.
Still, there was one undeniable advantage to being a small, adorable animal: he could go anywhere.
And so, armed with the determination of a Gryffindor and the logic of a fourteen-year-old with no adult supervision, Harry decided his new skill needed testing.
He slipped through the crack of the classroom door, silent as shadow, and padded down the corridor. From this low angle, Hogwarts looked massive. The flagstones were wide plains of cool stone, and the torchlight stretched like little suns along the wall.
He passed a pair of chatting Ravenclaws who cooed, “Awww, look at the tiny kitten!” and scooped him up before he could run. They scratched behind his ears.
He pretended to tolerate it (because, actually, it was kind of nice), and then bolted the second they set him down.
“Stray cat in the corridor!” someone called after him.
“Not a cat,” Harry muttered in a squeaky meow.
His plan was simple: sneak into the kitchens, steal a snack, and sneak back before curfew. He could already picture Ron’s face when he told him—oh, wait, no. He wasn’t telling Ron. He didn’t need that kind of laughter in his life.
He reached the entrance behind the still life painting and realized, belatedly, that thumbs were useful for tickling pears. He sat, tail flicking, and stared at the painting.
The pear stared back.
Harry meowed.
Nothing happened.
He batted the fruit with his paw.
The pear giggled faintly but stayed stubbornly in place.
“Right,” Harry sighed, sitting back on his haunches. “Didn’t think this through.”
Then a voice spoke from behind him.
“Mr. Potter.”
He froze. Every inch of his fur stood on end. The tone was unmistakable—clipped, precise, and filled with the sort of calm that promised doom.
Harry turned slowly.
Professor McGonagall stood in the corridor, her tartan dressing gown wrapped tightly around her shoulders, wand in hand. Her expression shifted—first confusion, then recognition, then something that looked alarmingly like resignation.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she muttered.
Harry tried to play it off with a delicate “mew.”
McGonagall crouched down, peering over her spectacles. “You wouldn’t happen to be Harry James Potter, would you?”
He blinked up at her with wide eyes and gave what he hoped was an innocent, who, me? expression.
She arched an eyebrow. “I see. Silent treatment.”
Harry took a cautious step backward.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said sharply.
He thought about it.
Then bolted.
McGonagall sighed—long-suffering and weary in a way that only teaching Harry Potter could inspire—and transformed in a shimmer of fur and magic.
The tabby cat’s green eyes gleamed as she took off after him.
For a few glorious seconds, Harry felt triumphant. He darted under benches, around corners, and between suits of armor, paws barely touching the floor. He was fast! Tiny! Untouchable!
Then a larger, much more experienced cat appeared in front of him like an avenging goddess of discipline.
Harry tried to skid to a stop but overcorrected and bumped nose-first into her paw.
The tabby cat stared down at him.
Harry squeaked.
There was a shimmer of light, and Professor McGonagall stood in front of him again, human once more, expression hovering between exasperation and something suspiciously like amusement.
“Well,” she said, bending down. “You are, at least, a very small problem tonight.”
Before Harry could dart away, she reached down and—mortifyingly—picked him up by the scruff of his neck.
“Professor!” he tried to say, but it came out as a high-pitched chirp.
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you have a very good explanation,” McGonagall murmured, adjusting her grip as she began walking back toward Gryffindor Tower. “Unfortunately for you, I’m not fluent in Feline.”
Harry dangled helplessly, tail flicking, paws curling uselessly in the air.
Students passing in the corridor stared. “Awww, Professor McGonagall found a kitten!” one Hufflepuff whispered.
“Isn’t it adorable?”
McGonagall’s lips twitched. “Adorable, yes. Obedient, no.”
The fat lady’s portrait swung open with a groan of hinges. “Back rather late, Professor,” she said, then peered closer. “Oh! How sweet! New pet?”
“Not quite,” McGonagall replied dryly, stepping through.
The common room was empty except for the crackling fire. She set Harry gently on the rug before the hearth, knelt beside him, and regarded him in silence.
Harry licked his paw awkwardly.
“So,” she said finally, “would you care to explain why I found you prowling the corridors at midnight in your Animagus form?”
Harry froze. He hadn’t realized she’d known.
McGonagall sighed. “Mr. Potter, I am one of seven registered Animagi in the British Isles. You cannot expect to surprise me with a pair of whiskers.”
Harry gave a plaintive “mew,” then, realizing she wasn’t buying it, concentrated until the warmth of transformation swept through him again. Moments later, he sat in the same spot—no longer a kitten, just a very sheepish fourteen-year-old in rumpled pajamas.
“Er,” he said. “Hi, Professor.”
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Potter.”
“I can explain.”
“Can you?”
“I mean—sort of?”
Her expression did not change.
Harry sighed. “I just… wanted to see if I could do it. And it worked! Except I didn’t expect to be, um, so… small.”
“Small,” she repeated flatly.
“Yeah.”
McGonagall’s lips twitched again—barely, but enough that he caught it. “Mr. Potter, most students who attempt Animagus training do so under supervision. You, I presume, thought you’d handle it alone?”
“It didn’t seem that dangerous,” Harry muttered.
Her gaze sharpened. “You could have been stuck.”
“I wasn’t!”
“You could have been,” she repeated firmly. Then, softer: “And I would have found you, eventually, still that small, still helpless, and unable to tell anyone who you were. Do you understand how easily you could have been hurt?”
Harry ducked his head. “Yes, Professor.”
McGonagall studied him for a moment, then sighed and stood. “Well. What’s done is done. You’ve clearly succeeded—if in a somewhat unorthodox form.”
“Do I have to register it?” he asked nervously.
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course you do. But I imagine the paperwork will be… entertaining.”
Harry couldn’t tell if that was a threat or a joke.
“Now,” she continued, folding her arms, “since you seem to enjoy exploring Hogwarts in your cat form, you may as well do so with supervision. You will report to my office after dinner tomorrow for proper Animagus control lessons.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She gave him a long look. “Someone has to teach you how not to get caught by yourself.”
Harry grinned. “Thanks, Professor.”
McGonagall turned toward the portrait hole, then paused. “And, Mr. Potter?”
“Yeah?”
“If I ever again catch you attempting to sneak into the kitchens as a kitten, I will pick you up by the scruff.”
Harry’s face burned. “You don’t have to do that again—”
Her mouth twitched. “You made a very undignified noise last time. Quite reminiscent of Mr. Weasley’s ghoul.”
Harry groaned. “Please forget that happened.”
“Not likely,” she said, and swept from the common room.
When the portrait closed behind her, Harry flopped down onto the rug and groaned into his hands.
Still… as humiliating as it had been, it was kind of nice that she’d cared enough to come find him.
And maybe—just maybe—he wouldn’t mind learning from her.
After all, if anyone understood cats, it was Professor McGonagall.