Chapter 08 – The Cat, the Chaos, and the Picnic

The first sign of disaster was silence. Not the usual, sleepy kind that came with dreary mornings at Hogwarts, but the tense, buzzing, almost magical absence of noise that makes even portraits hold their breath.

Professor McGonagall had vanished.

Not in the "she's late to class and popped into the staff room for a biscuit" kind of way. No. She had vanished, in the most magical and terrifying sense of the word. One minute she was preparing her lecture notes for Transfiguration; the next, she simply wasn't there. No explanation. No witnesses. No warning.

The school, naturally, descended into chaos.

It began quietly. The first-year Gryffindors, among them a very lost Harry Potter, had waited until the end of the class before realizing their professor wasn't coming, well, maybe they didn't even realize they waited so much. This delay might've gone unnoticed, if not for the elderly lady in the portrait outside the classroom, the guardian of that particular corridor, who had, quite conveniently, taken the liberty of visiting her sister's frame for tea and biscuits. "It was meant to be a short visit!" she would later lament, fanning herself. "How was I to know a professor would vanish while I was gone?"

In truth, no one could blame her. Disappearances at Hogwarts weren't common, at least not this sort of disappearance. Peeves vanishing into a pipe to prank someone? Normal. A cauldron disappearing because a Slytherin snuck it out? Regular Tuesday. But a professor vanishing from her own classroom? That was a catastrophe.

The moment word got out, panic rippled through the staff like a misfired hex.

Flitwick nearly fell off his stack of books. "Gone? What do you mean gone? Did she turn into a paperclip again?"

Professor Sprout gasped, dropping a mandrake in the process. "Not Minerva! She's punctual to a fault!"

Trelawney, dramatically clutching her shawl, declared, "I foresaw this in the leaves this morning! The Grim was in her teacup!"

Snape merely rolled his eyes and muttered something about incompetence.

Dumbledore, meanwhile, sat in his office with his fingers steepled beneath his chin and eyes narrowed. He knew this year would be different; he had felt it, deep in the marrow of his old bones. But even he, with all his foresight and plans, had not predicted this.

"I should have prepared more contingencies," he muttered, gazing into the swirling patterns of his pensieve. He resisted the urge to storm down to the dungeons and confront Quirrell. Something about that man, about the twitch of his eye and his constant muttering, made Dumbledore uneasy. But confronting him now might unravel plans carefully spun. Better to wait… for now.

He glanced toward Fawkes, who gave a sympathetic trill.

Down in the staff room, a heated debate had broken out.

"She must have been attacked!" declared Sprout, clutching her gardening gloves like a lifeline.

"Or transfigured!" Flitwick squeaked. "Perhaps into a doorknob or a teacup. Someone check the tea set!"

"I say it's Peeves," snapped Madam Hooch. "That poltergeist has gone too far this time!"

Peeves himself, eavesdropping from the chandelier, giggled madly. "Oh-ho-ho, I wish it were me!"

"I told you all," Trelawney intoned ominously. "The signs were clear. Her aura was fraying! The spirits warned me in a dream—"

"Oh, do shut up," said Snape.

Without McGonagall and without any witnesses, the range of possible explanations was too broad. Had she left Hogwarts? Been kidnapped? Was she simply enjoying an unplanned vacation in animagus form? They didn't know. And without the testimony of the portrait outside her classroom, they might never know whether she had entered or vanished before even arriving.

In summary, Hogwarts was a mess.

Students whispered ridiculous theories.

"Aliens?"

"She's on sabbatical."

"She's a were-cat and the full moon messed her up."

"She's eloping with Professor Vector."

The last one earned a detention.

Far from the frenzy, Luke Heaven-Smith walked with dignified serenity through the halls of Hogwarts. In his arms was a rather fluffy, suspiciously well-groomed cat who was currently asleep; if one could sleep while emanating such noble feline judgment.

The chaos did not concern Luke. His steps were deliberate, graceful, the walk of a cultivator who had achieved inner peace. Or, in his case, one who had barely slept and hadn't eaten since yesterday.

He reached his quarters, a large chamber reserved for him and his mother. Technically, Elizabeth was a staff member now, which came with certain perks. Though she only had a few classes per week, her title allowed them this shared space, far from the bustle of common dormitories.

Elizabeth was already there, seated with her legs elegantly crossed on the couch, reading a book with the solemn intensity of someone trying to understand what the Internet was, even though it didn't exist in this timeline.

Luke entered with dramatic flair. "Mother," he said with a deep and deliberate voice.

Elizabeth glanced up. "Why are you carrying a cat?"

"I found her in a classroom," Luke replied solemnly. "She radiates spiritual energy… or at least, a very stubborn aura."

Elizabeth set her book down and walked over, peering at the feline. "She's beautiful," she said softly. "So regal."

The cat twitched an ear.

Luke gently laid her on a nearby cushion, then rummaged through his things and pulled out a piece of metal. With deft hands, he began shaping it using magic, transfiguring it into an ornate, silver cage. Not to imprison her, but to act as a protective formation, a defensive structure worthy of guarding a celestial beast.

"This school," he murmured, "is not as safe as its enchanted walls suggest."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. "So you're putting the cat in a …?"

"A cage," he corrected. "Reinforced. Woven with runes. Just in case."

She shrugged and returned to her book.

The room was cozy. With enchanted lighting, a mini-kitchen, a pair of beds, and even a tiny library, it had everything they needed. If the world outside collapsed, Luke and his mother could comfortably remain within these walls for months. Perhaps years.

The afternoon sun painted golden streaks across the stone floor.

"I'm starving," Luke announced.

Elizabeth looked up. "You didn't eat today, did you?"

"No. Cultivation called. Then exhaustion. Then sleep."

She smiled. "Picnic?"

"Picnic."

Together, they packed a modest meal. Sandwiches, pumpkin juice, a few sweets, and a thermos of tea. Luke carried the basket; Elizabeth, the blanket.

They strolled to the lake in silence. Behind them, the castle bustled like an anthill kicked by a troll. Professors shouted spells. Students peeked around corners. A second-year swore she saw McGonagall turn into a squirrel and disappear.

But none of that reached the lakeside.

There, under the fading warmth of the sun, Elizabeth laid out the blanket while Luke carefully arranged their food.

"I wonder if the ducks here are magical," he mused, tossing a crumb into the water.

One duck caught it mid-air, honked, and exploded into a puff of glitter.

Luke blinked. "Noted."

Elizabeth sipped her tea.

They sat together, savoring the quiet. Sandwiches were eaten. He told her his stories and what happened in the classroom, most of them wildly exaggerated, and met with patient nods from Elizabeth. The bond between them, quiet and steadfast, filled the air more thoroughly than any incantation ever could.

Behind them, unnoticed, a few professors darted past the trees.

"Check the dungeons!" one yelled.

"She could've gone invisible!"

"Why would she go invisible?!"

"I don't know! Maybe she was experimenting!"

"I saw her last near the library!"

"YOU SEE EVERYONE NEAR THE LIBRARY, YOU LIVE THERE!"

Luke took a slow bite of his sandwich. "Nothing like mortal bread to ground the soul."

Elizabeth raised her cup.

Luke agreed and did it too.

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Minerva McGonagall was thinking about life.

Her thoughts wandered in a vague and meandering way, the kind that only comes to those who have been forced into stillness, solitude, and a humiliatingly small body. For hours, she had been trapped in her feline form and locked inside a magical cage that hummed softly with protective wards and smelled faintly of lavender sachets.

The boy had even etched defensive runes around the base, and she recognized none, is he that Smart? NO, he's just spouting nonsense. One was meant to repel spirits, and another looked suspiciously like an ancient Tibetan glyph designed to make intruders stub their toes.

Her captor Luke sat comfortably in the sun nearby, sharing sandwiches with his mother as if he had not just imprisoned a senior member of Hogwarts staff. They were laughing together. She remembered seeing Luke mimic a goose to explain a misfired spell and Elizabeth feigning shock when he claimed he once tamed a cloud spirit simply by lecturing it on the importance of punctuality.

She let out a long, tragic meow.

How did it come to this?

She was Minerva McGonagall, a Transfiguration prodigy and former Head Girl who had become a legend among professors. She had faced down dark wizards, quelled goblin rebellions, and once hexed a possessed sofa into submission using nothing but her wand and indignation, although in the end it was just Peeves. Her resume overflowed with honors, and her collection of tartan robes was so extensive that it required its own closet.

And now she was a fluffy hostage. Her tail twitched, and her pride flinched.

At first, she had raged, though only in private, hissing with indignation and pacing in tight circles like a lioness trapped in a traveling circus. She even planned her retaliation in vivid detail, plotting to demote the boy, to detain him, and to introduce a special syllabus titled Why You Should Not Imprison Your Teachers.

But the hours wore on.

And as the sun dipped lower in the sky, so too did her resistance.

She began to imagine the future.

Would she be stuck like this forever? A prisoner in silken fur? Would she become some sort of magical pet? She pictured herself draped across a pillow while Luke meditated, calling her his "spirit guardian." He'd feed her bits of jerky and insist she meow before every meal as a sign of spiritual alignment.

Her little old heart couldn't take it!!!

She'd be walked on a golden leash. Forced to attend "sect meetings" held in the Forbidden Forest. Luke would announce her arrival with declarations like, "Behold! The Eternal Flame Cat of Wisdom!" And she'd be expected to blink dramatically, as if confirming some esoteric truth.

Her little old heart couldn't take it!!!

Students would whisper about her legend. "They say she used to be a professor, but ascended into feline enlightenment." Some would try to pet her. Most would fail. One would write a thesis titled Transfiguration as a Path to Purr-fection: The Metaphysical Implications of Professor Minerva's Final Form.

Her little old heart couldn't take it!!!

She imagined Dumbledore chuckling as he scratched behind her ears. Snape would roll his eyes and mutter, "Of course she chose a cat. Typical."

She sighed, tail curling around her paws.

The worst part was… she could sort of see the appeal.

No lesson planning, no disciplinary hearings, no arguing with Peeves over ceiling slime, instead she would spend her days dozing in warm sunbeams, curling into soft laps and tasting the occasional bite of cheese, and if she allowed herself to lean into this curious state, she might discover that it was less punishment than a sideways promotion.

She blinked slowly as she considered her new existence, thinking that perhaps she would begin by accepting the next bowl of milk without casting a scowl, allowing a few gentle chin scratches when offered, and selecting a favorite windowsill to call her own, while each day she meditated on the delightful absurdity of fate. Yes.

Yes, she could do this.

She was Minerva McGonagall. She had survived worse.

She would be the most dignified, well-read, and quietly judgmental magical cat the world had ever known.

Sob.

Sob.

Meow.