After unexpectedly running into his pet, Harold gained himself a new mode of transportation.
In his cat form, he could sit comfortably on Tom's back. Tom didn't seem to mind—in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. To him, giving Harold rides around the castle was downright fun.
Especially when it came to chasing Mrs. Norris. That was double the thrill.
Tom had long found Mrs. Norris too slow to be any challenge. The chase would be over in seconds, and it was starting to get boring.
But now, with Harold's added weight, the chase suddenly became evenly matched again.
So, in the vast empty corridors of the castle, three cats were locked in a high-stakes, exhilarating chase.
Mrs. Norris howled as she bolted ahead. Tom and Harold followed in hot pursuit, and far behind, Filch tried desperately to keep up.
Filch might have been good at catching students, but trying to catch either of those cats—especially while Mrs. Norris was sprinting for her life—was pure fantasy. All he could do was shout furiously from behind.
Unfortunately for him, his voice was drowned out by the wind howling past Harold's ears.
Not gonna lie—cat-racing was exhilarating. The speed, the gusts of wind rushing past, the sudden shortcuts by leaping across corridor railings—it was like soaring over canyons.
Even the Firebolt had nothing on this.
Sadly, before Harold could enjoy the thrill any longer, voices drifting up from downstairs forced him to leap down from Tom's back.
Sounds like the Hogwarts Express had arrived. The first students were back at the castle, and that meant the Start-of-Term Feast was just around the corner.
Harold returned to human form.
His black fur shifted into the standard Hogwarts uniform. He adjusted his pointed hat.
"Go on now," Harold scratched Tom's head. "I'll introduce you to an old friend later."
Tom licked his palm and bounded away.
Harold strolled casually back to the entrance hall, blending in with the crowd heading toward the Great Hall.
"Harold!" Harry came running over. "Thank Merlin you're here!"
"We couldn't find you or Professor McGonagall anywhere on the train—we searched everywhere," Ron and Hermione joined him.
"In the end, it was Professor Lupin who figured you two must have Disapparated off the train," said Ron.
"Looks like he was right," Hermione added. "When did you get back to school?"
"Just a little before you," Harold said vaguely. "Something came up, and Professor McGonagall brought me back early."
He didn't tell them about becoming an Animagus.
The fewer people who knew, the better.
Originally, Harold had been worried about how to convince Professor McGonagall to delay his Animagus registration with the Ministry—for a few years at least.
But to his surprise, once he had adapted to his new feline form, McGonagall had gone off to Hogsmeade with a few other professors and hadn't brought it up again—not even once.
And since she didn't mention it, Harold certainly wouldn't.
Especially not to Hermione.
Right now, Hermione was even more rigid about rules than McGonagall. Who knew if she'd start pestering him about registering?
And really, what self-respecting wizard would register their Animagus form? It defeated the entire point of it being a disguise. What's the use of a "camouflage" if everyone knows?
Only unregistered Animagi were true Animagi. The Ministry-registered ones were just glorified shapeshifters.
"You don't look too well," Harold changed the subject. "Are you feeling okay?"
"No, it's not that…" Harry looked uncomfortable, his voice faltering. "Something kind of unpleasant happened on the train."
"I'm telling you, Harold, you were lucky not to be on that train. I'm jealous," said Ron, appearing beside them. "You wouldn't believe what we went through."
"What happened?" Harold asked, feigning curiosity.
"Dementors!" Hermione exclaimed. "Several of them boarded the train. I think they were convinced Sirius Black might be hiding among the students."
"They were terrifying," Ron shuddered. "It was like all the happiness was sucked right out of me."
"I mean, I don't know what they did to Harry, but—"
"RON!" Harry shouted.
Ron flinched. "What? What's your problem?"
"N-nothing," Harry stammered. He glanced around, clearly desperate to change the subject. "Look—there, that's Professor R. J. Lupin. He's the one who drove them away."
Harold turned to look where Harry was pointing.
"He's also our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Hermione added.
"I have a good feeling about him," she said. "We might finally have someone competent this year."
As the trio chatted away, they gave Harold the full recap of what had happened on the train—conveniently skipping the part where Harry fainted in front of everyone.
They reached the Gryffindor table, but just as they were about to sit down, a sharp voice called, "Potter, Granger! I need to see both of you!"
Harry and Hermione turned around in surprise—Professor McGonagall was standing behind them.
But what truly shocked them was the smile on her face.
Harry rubbed his eyes. He looked again.
Yep. That was a smile.
He must still be on the train, dreaming. There was no way McGonagall—stern, serious, and composed—would smile like that.
What's more, there was a faint scent of alcohol on her.
So not only was she smiling—she'd been drinking?!
If they hadn't been standing inside Hogwarts, with Dumbledore sitting at the head table, they might've assumed this was some impostor Polyjuiced as McGonagall.
But no. It was really her.
Still reeling, Harry and Hermione followed her out of the Great Hall without protest.
"They're probably headed to Madam Pomfrey," Ron said. "Harry fainted on the train—fell right out of his seat and started convulsing. Bet those Dementors did something to him."
Harold smirked. Thıs text ıs hosted at 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓵•𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮•𝓷𝓮𝓽
Well, Harry had barely left before Ron completely blew the cover-up Harry was trying so hard to maintain.
Then again, maybe it didn't matter. Judging by the murmur in the hall, everyone already knew. The rumors had gone wild—some were claiming Harry had been kissed by a Dementor and had his soul sucked out.
In that light, Ron's version almost sounded reasonable.
With McGonagall off escorting students and Professor Flitwick apparently tipsy as well, the Sorting Ceremony was left to Snape.
The poor first-years were already nervous enough, and now they had to face Snape's icy glare. One student, trembling so badly, walked straight toward the Gryffindor table after being sorted into Slytherin.
Snape's expression darkened considerably.
Harold didn't envy that kid—no doubt they'd be receiving special attention from their Head of House.