Chapter 45 — The Cat on the Desk
The sky above Hogwarts was still bathed in soft indigo when Thomas Space opened his eyes. His roommates were fast asleep, gentle breathing rising and falling in rhythm beneath the canopies of their beds. He sat up quietly, pushing away the warmth of his blanket and stepping into the cold stone floor with practiced ease.
It was 5:23 a.m. He'd beaten his alarm again.
By 5:30, Thomas was already moving silently through the dim corridors of the Gryffindor Tower, his wand tucked neatly inside his robe. Over the past few days, he'd memorized several of the castle's less-used passageways, and now he followed one of them—leading to a quiet, unused classroom on the fourth floor.
He closed the door gently behind him, warded the room for silence and detection, then took a deep breath. His fingers itched with focus.
Time to train.
First was Reach. He flicked his hand toward a stack of pebbles he'd collected earlier.
"Reach."
A flash of space folded—the pebble vanished and appeared in his palm. Smooth. Fast.
He repeated the motion, faster each time, then moved to Switch.
"Switch."
Two books on opposite ends of the desk shimmered and reversed positions with a soft pop. The spell crackled slightly; he gritted his teeth, adjusted his mental grip on the target, and tried again. More stable now.
But it was Blink he truly wanted to refine. With a steadying breath, he fixed his eyes on the opposite corner of the room.
"Blink."
The familiar pull in his gut, the flexing of unseen threads, and—snap!—he was there.
He grinned.
Again.
Again.
By the time the old bell in the distance chimed 8:00, his robe was damp with sweat, and the joy in his chest hummed like a living spark.
The Great Hall was already buzzing when he arrived, slipping into the seat between Fred and George. The table was piled high with eggs, toast, sausages, and an unreasonable amount of pumpkin juice.
Fred leaned closer, eyeing Thomas's slightly mussed hair. "Been wrestling a troll this morning, mate?"
George grinned. "Or did you take a scenic jog around the Forbidden Forest?"
Thomas chuckled, scooping some eggs onto his plate. "Let's just say I like quiet mornings."
Fred raised an eyebrow. "Quiet is suspicious."
"But efficient," Thomas replied with a smile.
Lee Jordan leaned across from the other side. "What's the bet that he's secretly an animagus too?"
George nodded solemnly. "We'll add that to the list. Right below 'Possible Alien' and 'Secret Dueling Champion.'"
Thomas just shook his head, amused.
At 8:30, they made their way toward the first class of the day—Transfiguration. The schedule had been posted the night before on the Gryffindor common room bulletin board: Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, 8:30, Transfiguration, Classroom 3B.
The classroom itself was warm with morning light. Tall windows spilled golden rays across rows of tidy desks. At the front, on the professor's desk, sat a single, dignified-looking tabby cat, its tail curled neatly around its paws.
Fred nudged George, grinning. "Look at that. Royalty's already here."
George stepped forward with mock solemnity. "Perhaps Her Majesty desires an offering of sausages."
"Don't," Thomas said quietly, stepping between them.
Fred raised a brow. "Why not?"
Thomas kept his voice low. "Just... trust me. Don't poke the cat."
Something about those piercing eyes—calm, unblinking—reminded him of something he'd read in his stolen hours of magical theory. Animagi. The highest form of transfiguration, the ability to turn oneself into an animal. Could it be...?
He took a step back and waited.
Ravenclaws began arriving, chattering excitedly. Then, as the clock struck 8:30 exactly, the cat leapt gracefully from the desk. Mid-air, its form shimmered—limbs stretching, tail vanishing, robes folding into place—and landed as Professor McGonagall, stern-faced and sharp-eyed, as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Gasps rippled through the room. Fred and George both jumped.
George leaned toward Thomas and muttered, "Thanks for the warning."
Thomas gave a small smile. "Told you."
Professor McGonagall scanned the class. "Good morning."
"Good morning, Professor," the students replied in uneven chorus.
Her eyes landed on Thomas. "Mr. Space, I believe you were the only one who recognized me for what I was. I commend your observation. Ten points to Gryffindor."
Thomas nodded politely, though inwardly he flushed with pride.
Without preamble, Professor McGonagall launched into the lesson. She was concise, direct, and brilliant. She introduced the theory behind Transfiguration, the laws of elemental conversion, and the extreme caution required in its use.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
Thomas found himself absorbing every word. The structure, the theory—it was all so precise, so logical. The way she described magical essence, boundaries of shape and function—it all resonated deeply with the spatial theories he'd been developing.
She demonstrated a simple transfiguration spell, turning her quill into a silver needle. The class applauded.
Fred whispered to George, "Bet I could turn that into a fish."
George whispered back, "Bet you'd turn your nose into one instead."
Thomas couldn't help a smile.
McGonagall continued without missing a beat. "Today, we will focus on understanding, not practicing. You will not attempt any spells until next week."
Some students groaned. Thomas, however, agreed. Power without understanding was asking for disaster.
After the class, they returned to the Great Hall for lunch—quick, warm dishes and more pumpkin juice. Thomas sat between Lee and Fred, chatting about magical theory and broom accidents, then followed the tide of students out toward the greenhouses.
Herbology was held in Greenhouse One, a sunlit, humid place filled with plants both mundane and mildly threatening. Professor Sprout, cheerful and earthy, welcomed both Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs with a smile.
"Today, we'll be taking it easy," she said, brushing dirt off her gloves. "No need to lose a finger just yet."
The class laughed nervously.
She proceeded to introduce the major topics they'd be studying that year—mandrakes, dittany, puffapods, and the dreaded venomous tentacula. She explained the various spells they'd learn to assist in safe handling: fire-making charms, containment wards, and growth regulators.
Thomas listened attentively, already filing the spell types mentally under 'possible enhancements for field manipulation.'
Next to him, Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff was scribbling notes with a neat, confident hand. They exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgment.
No practicals today either. That was fine by Thomas. He preferred to understand before acting.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of sunshine and curiosity.
Thomas found himself pulled along by Fred, George, and Lee Jordan as they explored the castle's winding corridors. They tested secret stairwells, discovered a tapestry that led to a shortcut behind the library, and ran from a suit of armor that insisted on reciting limericks in Latin.
Laughter echoed through the halls. For once, Thomas didn't think about training or danger or dimensional theory. Just laughter.
Evening fell like a soft blanket, and they returned to the common room with sore feet and big grins. As Thomas leaned against the back of a sofa, catching his breath, Fred and George walked over with mischievous glints in their eyes.
George dropped three silver Sickles into Thomas's hand.
Thomas blinked. "What's this for?"
Fred smirked. "A share of the profits."
George added, "We've been selling copies of the map to the other first-years. Basic version, of course."
Thomas looked down at the coins. "But... I didn't make the copies. You two did."
Fred shrugged. "Wouldn't have had a map at all without you."
George nodded. "You helped us finish it. And we're not snakes."
Thomas's throat tightened slightly. He looked at the twins—cheeky, brilliant, incorrigible—and felt a warmth bloom in his chest.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Fred clapped a hand on his shoulder. "If we make another ten, we're naming the next version the Space Edition."
Thomas rolled his eyes. "Please don't."
George winked. "Too late."