A Mistake is a Lesson not yet Learned

It was meant to be an academic exercise. Hermione was good at those, stellar in fact. When she'd found the book in Paris, she'd assumed it was utter tripe. One could not Learn to be an Animagus in Ten Simple Steps, not even if one was French. The book was barely legible, and even then it was hardly readable. Hermione had ignored the flowery poetry in the margin and stuck to the printed text. If nothing else, studying the tome had provided a distraction from her last year at Hogwarts.

Not that they were actually at Hogwarts, of course. The damage caused to the school during the war had rendered it unusable. Repairs were expected to take at least a year. The school had temporarily been relocated to Megginch Castle, partly because the occupants were easily convinced to go on holiday (by what method, no one dared ask) but more, Hermione thought, because its smaller size would make less obvious how few students returned to finish out their education. Hermione, naturally, could not rest without taking her N.E.W.T.s.

Which is exactly what I should have been focusing on, instead of mucking about with silly French texts.

She sighed. Or she would have, were it possible in her current state. What emerged was more of a yawn, followed by three short sneezes. She stalked from one end of her room to the other, then back again. She stretched, shoulders dropping as she reached in front of her, back arching sinuously, bum and tail reaching for the ceiling. Her claws caught in the rug, so she sharpened them there until she realized what she was doing.

"Damn and blast!" she attempted to say. What came out was a cross between a hiss and a yowl.

The book had failed to note that, once in animal form, it became entirely impossible for one to reverse the spell that had brought about the transformation. This would explain why it normally took years of study for one to become an Animagus. Also why it was a good idea to let someone know you were attempting to circumvent all that training.

Ron and Harry would have laughed themselves sick over her predicament. Providing, of course, they had realized that the enormous cat in the room was Hermione. Most likely, they would have popped their heads in, mistaken her for a kneazle, stolen her chocolate, and gone off in search of entertainment. Even at their best, they did not have the imagination to see the truly bizarre when it was directly in front of them. Unless, of course, it was trying to kill them. They'd become rather adept at spotting that.

Her best bet would have been to go to Professor McGonagall straight away. A true Animagus, the headmistress would almost certainly recognize Hermione and be able to reverse her transformation. The lecture that followed would be devastating. At the very least, McGonagall would forever think less of Hermione for attempting such a short-cut. At the very worst, the Headmistress could consider the transgression worthy of expulsion. Which meant Hermione had exactly three days to figure out how to get out of her current predicament. When everyone came back from the Christmas holiday, she would surely be found out.

Had the spell worked as planned, Hermione might have been seen as innovative and daring, but as she was stuck in the form of what she believed to be a Scottish wildcat, revealing herself would be humiliating in the extreme. She'd read somewhere that there were less than four hundred Scottish wildcats living outside of captivity. She doubted anyone but Hagrid would know that. She looked enough like an oversized housecat that she should avoid notice.

The solution was simple. If she was to be humiliated anyway, she might as well go to the person who knew how best to crush her. One powerful leap took her to the open window. Another took her to the balcony below. One more leap and she was on the ground. The last leap would be the hardest. She ran around the side of the building and looked for a way into the dungeon rooms of Professor Severus Snape.

It was actually only half-underground, but saying he lived in the cellar lacked the dignity due a once-famous villain. Or a famous once-villain turned tragic victim turned miraculously healed war hero. To the best of her knowledge, he'd told no one how he managed to live after his dramatic and very obvious death. All she knew was that he'd refused accolades and returned to teaching Potions. Anyone overheard gossiping about it soon found themselves spending weekends helping Filch sweep up what remained of Hogwarts.

Hermione trotted down the back stairs and through the covered alcove outside the kitchen. The door stood open, letting warmth and delicious scents float out.

"Hello, Miss Hermione," chirped Hurrie. She was small, even for a house-elf, but always cheerful. "Going for a stroll is you?"

Hermione blinked at the elf, opened her mouth to speak, remembered she had lost the ability, and decided a nod was the best response.

"Hurrie will leave the door open a crack, then." She went back to rolling out pastry on several boards at once.

Since Hermione had no way to explain to Hurrie that her current form was a terrible mistake, nor any way to ask the elf to be circumspect in mentioning the encounter, she slipped away and hoped for the best.

Snow crunched under her paws, but for once, being outside in winter did not make her shiver. There were some benefits to her current form even if it was inconvenient to be stuck in it. Wind ruffled her fur as she ran for the secluded library Professor Snape had claimed as his personal chambers. It could not be accessed from the castle, but rather was across the courtyard and down a flight of stairs. She paused at the top, realizing she had no way to knock. Instead, she made her way to the arched windows that faced away from the castle.

The room was not at all what she would have expected, with the exception of the green walls. A fire burned low in the fireplace at one end. Nearby, a comfortable chair sat next to a small table piled with books. On another, several scrolls were held open by an assortment of small statues and one empty vase. Under the window, several blankets draped over the back and arm of a worn couch. The entire room looked airy but welcoming. Unfortunately, there was no one in it.

Hermione sat down to figure out what she should do next, but her normal clarity escaped her. She knew the danger of staying in animal form too long, but it had only been three days. A very trying three days, during which she had scrounged for food in the kitchen when the house-elves were asleep and otherwise attempted to avoid notice by remaining in her room. At some point, her door had been closed, though she did not know by whom. Frustrated and hungry, she had taken solace in the fact that she had retained the ability to read. Not that it did me any good. Turning the pages had been difficult, and no matter how many times she read the passages about making the change, she had not been able to determine how one was supposed to undo the spell.

The chill began to permeate her thick fur, assisted by yet another round of falling snow. She shook it off, then went back to watching the empty room. What seemed an eternity later, Professor Snape finally made his appearance. She blinked the snow out of her eyes and stared. In the entire time she had known him, she had never seen him like this. He wore a white shirt with loose sleeves and tied cuffs. It was open at the neck, the barest hint of dark hair visible where the laces hung loose. For all its fullness, it did not hide the breadth of his chest – just a bit wider than expected, nor the taper of his long torso, where it tucked into a pair of pants that fit a bit too well. He was not handsome, nor had he ever been, but he had a certain grace of movement. Now she knew why. Under all that black, and despite his war injuries, the man was undeniably healthy.

She shook her head, and the borrowed form continued the shiver to the tip of her tail. It occurred to her that she had never really thought of him as a man. Not the way she did now, at any rate. Don't be foolish. He was her professor. She was not taking Potions this year, but that did not change his authority over her. That prompted another untoward thought followed by another involuntary shiver. She convinced herself it was the cold.

He turned to leave, and she realized she might have ruined her chance to get into that room and, somehow, convince him to help her. So, she did the only thing she could think of. She yowled.

He spun, wand in hand, eyes narrowed. She raised one paw to the glass and attempted to look as pathetic as possible. It was not much of a stretch. She opened her eyes wide, gave a plaintive meow, and pressed her body against the window. He kept his wand pointed at her as he approached. She desperately tried to appear as innocent as possible and hoped her cat features did not reveal exactly what she thought, without meaning to, about the way he stalked toward her.

Honestly! she chided herself, but the problem was that the cat in her was being entirely honest in a way Hermione the witch could never be.

"And what have we here?" His deep tones were muffled by the glass between them.

"Mrat?"

"What fool allowed you to roam about in such dreadful weather?" he mused. "Simply unconscionable."

"Mrrrrow!" She cursed her now limited vocabulary, then gave an exaggerated shiver.

"Cold and alone and here at my window to petition for warmth. How charming." He smiled grimly. "I dislike charms. And interruptions."

She prayed he did not dislike cats.

"I suppose I cannot let you freeze to death. Someone might care." It was clear that someone would not be him. "I would never hear the end of it."

Decided, he strode to the door on the opposite side of the room. Hermione was mesmerized by the flow of fabric across his back, the muscles in his legs and... well, everywhere, really. Lean muscle, to be sure, but there was nothing wrong with that.

"If you actually wish to commit suicide by Scottish winter, by all means, stay where you are."

As if to illustrate his point, a fierce wind raked over her. She leapt toward the stairs, still surprised by how much ground her new body could cover, then continued leaping until she thumped against his door. Must work on the landing. She fell into the room, then righted herself and, so as to be convincing, licked her shoulder as if she'd meant to land in a graceless heap. The gesture was strangely comforting, so she continued to clean her fur. It was not at all because she was afraid to look at him.

"Poor little kitty." There was no warmth in his tone. "Whatever shall I do with you now?"

She could think of any number of things, but none of them were appropriate. Or possible, things being what they were. She made a circuit of the room, looking for any means by which she might communicate with him who she was and what she needed. She leapt up onto the chair and nosed at the books.

He righted them and then, much to her surprise, lifted her up until her eyes were level with his. Her back legs dangled, a most uncomfortable position, but fighting him would gain her nothing.

"You are not a good cat. No one has collared you or taught you proper manners. Perhaps I shall see to that. In the meantime, I must come up with a name for you." His gaze traveled up and down her mostly limp form. "As I suspected, a female."

She was very glad she could not blush. Not that there was anything untoward about his perusal of a cat, even if that cat happened to contain a severely embarrassed witch. Once he found out who she was, he would torment her with this evening. Possibly for the rest of her life.

He smiled, the least reassuring thing he could do. "I shall call you Fluff. Not original, but I doubt you will be with me long enough to learn to answer when I call for you."

Hermione hissed.

He pulled her close to his body, arms locked around her legs so she could not scratch him. "Now, now. Is that any way to treat your new master, Fluff?" His hand came down heavy as he stroked her from head to tail.

She growled.

He continued to stroke her firmly. "You'll get used to my touch soon enough. I could tame you in record time, if you allowed yourself to trust me." His fingers played with the sensitive spot behind her ear.

Without consulting her at all, a purr rumbled through her. She did not want to purr! She did not want the weight of his hands on her. She most certainly did not want him to fondle her fur.

She could not convince herself of any of it.

"Oh, damn." The words mangled into a mewling sound.

"That's it, Fluff. Relax and enjoy the attention." He sat down and loosened his grip on her.

She bolted into the corner, the fur on her back standing straight on end.

"Interesting markings," he said. "A solid black stripe, thick, blunt tail, touches of cream on the underbelly."

He'd run his hands over that, too. The witch inside her had died of mortification. The cat had positively reveled in it.

"Quite a rare specimen, aren't you? I doubt you've let anyone touch you before. Well, no one who knew what they had in their hands. I am certain there have been those who have tried to grab you, fumbled about in an attempt to capture the wildcat. Your kind is difficult to find, much less hold onto. Yet you enter my room and show almost no fear of me. Rare indeed."

He rose but made no move to capture her. She maintained a safe distance. Without thinking, she began cleaning her fur again. It really was a most efficient way to bathe. She choked on the thought.

"If you hack up a hairball on my carpet, I shall be extremely displeased."

She ignored him and saw to her tail.

"Fluff," he called.

She glared at him.

"As I thought, not in the least biddable." He poured himself a glass of firewhisky, downed it, then addressed her again. "As I do not have your particular talent, I am going to shower. Try not to destroy anything while I'm occupied."

As he walked down the hall, she heard him mutter. "Talking to a cat, how absurd."

For sunnythirty3, who gave a most excellent prompt.