A rare clear day came in January.
Compared with ordinary cats, a Kneazle has an edge in speed.
It isn't afraid of the cold… Sean was certain.
So why did Mrs. Norris wear clothes?
Sean guessed it was Mr. Filch's wishful thinking—and the lady simply didn't care to contradict him.
In the Great Hall, Michael was rampaging with a Gendoka Knight.
No opponent dared field their "hot-headed, greedy, lecherous" kings anymore, since the knight might take them off the board on the spot.
Michael firmly believed the special pieces had been brought by a black cat; Sean wasn't sure whether that was true or not.
The Hogwarts first-years, however, believed it easily.
At night, Sean often saw people on the third floor leaving dried fish beneath his statue and praying to obtain an "Arthur":
— the strongest king piece, able to transform a wizard piece into "Merlin" or "Morgan," either of which could decide the match.
To describe it roughly: "Everybody stop playing!" — choose a wizard piece: 50% chance to win instantly; 50% chance to lose on the spot.
The Weasleys had already announced that "Arthur" was officially online in Oddball Wizard Chess—
but in truth Sean hadn't had time to make it… The twins weren't even pretending not to be copying the wizard lottery anymore.
At the same time, one thing left Sean speechless: the same student who had left dried fish as an offering later ate it himself without realizing it—after using the "Mrs. Norris" biscuit.
…He thought the Lucky Black Cat had manifested a miracle.
All in all, since Christmas, Hogwarts had become more entertaining.
These days,
Sean quietly moved a plan to the top of his list: a visit to Hagrid's hut.
That plan sat alongside [Grind High-Tier Kneazle Biscuit to Expert] — for example, at the moment Sean was in Kneazle form taking a leisurely stroll around the Quidditch pitch.
There was always someone from the "Castle Lucky Cat Club" in the castle; when he could help it, Sean preferred not to stay inside.
The Castle Lucky Cat Club had been founded after Christmas, jointly approved by Headmaster Dumbledore and Deputy Headmistress McGonagall.
Oddly, Hogwarts clubs usually took a month or two to approve because they were meant to endure, but this one was approved as soon as it was submitted.
Sean had good reason to suspect he'd been set up.
On the pitch, today's practice was especially wet and muddy.
Sean waited for Hagrid to appear—nervous. He didn't know whether a transformation biscuit would win him Hagrid's favor so he could later observe the Norwegian Ridgeback.
Just then a roar carried across the field:
"Will you lot stop fooling around!"
Gryffindor captain Oliver Wood bellowed,
"That's a sure way to lose us the match! Snape's refereeing this one; he'll find any excuse to dock points from Gryffindor!"
A cat's vision is six times more sensitive than a human's. Even from afar, Sean could see the Weasley twins, repeatedly mock-plummeting off their brooms, staring wide-eyed.
And George Weasley, on hearing this, actually fell off his broom.
"Snape's refereeing?"
Spitting mud, he asked,
"When has he ever refereed a Quidditch match? If we have any chance of beating Slytherin, he'll never be fair."
The other teammates landed around George, all complaining at once.
"It isn't my fault," said Wood. "We can only guarantee we stick to the rules; then Snape won't have an excuse to pick on us."
Sean roughly understood—this meant the Forbidden Forest plot was about to begin, and after the Forest would come the Norwegian Ridgeback—Norbert's arrival.
Unfortunately, even after Sean returned to the castle, Hagrid hadn't emerged from the edge of the Forest.
He would come, Sean knew—soon Hagrid would return to fetch provisions. So he waited patiently.
Come evening, Sean bounded up the staircase in a few jumps; by the glittering silver of a suit of armor, he caught sight of a few Slytherins exiting near the dungeons.
He paid them little mind and slipped back to the Hope Nook. Neville's spellwork had improved greatly of late, and Hermione was patiently teaching him.
Occasionally the two would ask Sean questions; at Expert level, Sean answered them with ease.
…
Another morning: January's chill was held fast outside Hogwarts' thick stone walls.
In the corridors, torches crackled on iron brackets. Beside the Fat Lady's portrait, a few first-years rubbed their hands and watched, grinning, as their breath turned white in the cold air.
Where the hearths burned hottest, deep red armchairs and thick carpets were toasty warm.
A black cat, eyes closed, was trying to use long white whiskers to sense the world.
A cat's whiskers are highly evolved sensory organs: navigation and positioning, spatial measurement, balance, environmental awareness, emotional expression, hunting aid, and eye protection—able even to detect faint air currents.
In short, extremely powerful.
But Sean couldn't manage it yet. So once a week, Professor McGonagall was happy to help him master his Animagus.
The tabby sat elegantly on a small cushion transfigured for the lesson, watching as the black cat accidentally bumped his head; her whiskers twitched up in amusement.
The black cat soon got the hang of it—so next he had to learn to slip through narrow door cracks.
And just outside, a little way down the corridor—
"Neville Longbottom—oh, I've been just looking for someone to practice this curse on. Looks like you'll do nicely! Come here!"
A platinum-blond Slytherin drawled.
The two goons behind him snickered.
Neville's round face was full of fear. He started forward by instinct, then stopped after a single step.
"I—I don't want trouble," Neville muttered, stammering.
Malfoy's jeering continued:
"Ah, I remember—Gryffindor's Quidditch team picks those they pity. Potter—no mum, no dad. The Weasley twins—no money. You should be on the team too, Neville Longbottom—because you've got no brains."
Neville's face flushed scarlet. He raised his head and faced Malfoy.
"You can't say that…"
The moment his stammering voice sounded, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle burst into mocking laughter.