This fic was translated from the original French by RaeWhit and submitted with the author's permission. "Everybody Wants To Be a Cat" par Lychee. Thanks to my betas Cyrianne (French text) and JackieJLH (English translation). Reveiws may be left here on Eros and Sappho, or may be submitted directly to Lychee by accessing her website from her author profile page and clicking on the link "Me Joindre".
Translator's Note: "Everybody Wants To Be a Cat" is a four-chapter story, and is the hallmark fic for which Lychee is so well known in French fandom.
Harry purred when Severus Snape began to caress his back. Really, his Potions professor's hands were exquisite, and extremely adaptable to all sorts of activities….
He started to lick the man's neck in return, nibbling the pale skin, pulling a smile from the master of the dungeons.
"Come to bed," the man ordered as he picked him up to carry him to the bedchamber, or more precisely, to the huge, black-canopied bed.
With a blessed sigh, Harry pressed himself against the amused man's warm body, who then blew out the candle with a last, "Good night, cat."
"Meow."
***
A few weeks earlier…
Our story starts, not very surprisingly, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, center of the Wizarding world, renowned for having molded hundreds of generations of rowdy, little wizards…. Ah, Hogwarts. Its 992 corridors and 124 towers, its Great Hall with the magical ceiling, its secret passages, its dungeons…precisely, its dungeons….
"You can fuck off! You and your bloody potions!"
"Shut it, Potter! You understand nothing, and that doesn't surprise me, filthy brat!"
"I'd rather be a filthy brat than a pathetic, bitter, cynical jerk with greasy hair!"
"And I pity your entourage, Potter, the Boy Who Lived, for having to put up with your despicable, arrogant smile all of the time!"
"My bloody smile says fuck you!"
"Which will cost it 150 points from Gryffindor!" Snape bellowed.
The ringing of the bell prevented Harry, pale with rage, from replying. So he stuffed his things in his cauldron before striding out of the dungeons after a last exchange of nasty looks with his favorite Potions professor. It was only at a respectable distance from the classroom that he permitted himself to explode.
"Arrrrrrrggggghhhhh!"
Hermione and Ron took off after him to pull him away from the wall against which he was banging his head with a worrisome "bonk-bonk!"
"Harry, that's enough! That won't help anything!" the brunette scolded him.
"Oh, yes it helps!" he replied as he methodically began to shred Ron's tie, who promptly pulled it away from his hands.
"Why don't you try…I don't know…to make an effort?"
"Like he makes one? That disgusting bastard!"
"A problem, Potty?" drawled a mocking voice. "Your friends finally made up their minds to tell you the truth about your smile?"
Harry turned furiously towards his worst enemy, his eyes casting Avada Kedavras.
"You, Malfoy," he murmured quietly, as he just as quietly approached the Slytherin. "I advise you to clear out of here pronto before I triple the size of your balls and then paint them pink. Hmmm?"
Draco was gone in three-tenths of a second, his faultlessly executed Disapparition ranking up there with the best of them.
"Great!" Harry said with a satisfied grin before turning back to his two friends. "What were we talking about?" he asked them cheerfully.
"Harry…you're scary sometimes," Ron muttered.
"What do you expect? I'm playing tall, dark and brooding. Are we going to eat?"
***
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Had Obstinately Refused To Die And In The End Survived Against The Dark Lord Because After All Life Is Meant To Be Lived And It Wasn't His Parents' Murderer Who Was Going To Tell Him Otherwise Oh No And So There, was now beginning his seventh and final year of studies, barring the unforeseen possibility of repeating the year, at Hogwarts, which meant this was his last year, oh joy, of having to put up with the company of Severus Snape and, to a lesser degree, Draco Malfoy. Merlin be praised.
Despite the defeat of Voldemort, and the charges brought against Malfoy Senior for several little Death Eater-like activities—charges of which, surprise-surprise, he had been found blameless—Malfoy Junior continued to pollute his life. But in all honesty, it was nothing, truly nothing, compared to Snape. Severus 'I Am A Bastard Who Pisses Off The World' Snape.
Harry had thought he hated him with all of his heart by the end of his fifth year. Wrong. He had discovered that it had only been a tenth of what he would one day feel for the man. There wasn't a Potions class that went by when he didn't get thrown out. The man no longer assigned him detentions, Harry and himself having come to blows during the final hour of the last one. No, frankly, it was no longer an option.
But this evening, Harry had decided to put his plan into action.
***
The Supreme Boy Who Lived glanced at the old luminous watch that he'd inherited from Dudley. 11:27. Good. The rest of the room seemed to be quietly sleeping…. He focused and soundlessly took his Animagus form, and then stood still, straining his ears. No reaction. He jumped from the bed, slid through the half-open door, climbed along the curtain, and then reached the beam that led to the opening that allowed him to avoid the Fat Lady's portrait. He landed agilely in the corridor. Free.
*Who is it that's going to vandalize his adored professor's lab? It's Haaaaaaaaaaaary!*
He'd been perfecting his Animagus form for almost two months now. He'd been working on it since the beginning of July, profiting from the permission given to sixth-years to use magic outside of school. Training himself to transform into an animal while inside a cupboard had not proven to be very easy, but he'd eventually managed it, and was rather pleased with how his summer hols had turned out.
He was a young, midnight black cat with sparkling green eyes, and a tiny white mark on the spot where his scar would be. He had been rather surprised by his form, not knowing what to expect, hoping, perhaps, for a more impressive animal. But now he was entirely satisfied with it—its smaller size and velvet paws allowed him the run of the castle whenever he wanted.
He had, of course, told no one. Dumbledore would have congratulated him and straightaway forbidden him to use it, 'for his own personal safety', naturally. Hermione, ditto. He could have perhaps told Ron, if his friend hadn't seemed a little distracted lately….
With a triumphant step, he infiltrated the dungeons, his whiskers quivering with anticipation. Oh, he was about to get his, that arrogant old bat…heh heh heh….
CREEEAAK!
He pushed the Potions laboratory door open with a velvet paw and slipped inside. A whole batch of distillation devices, carefully lined up, waited in readiness for the next day's sixth-year Hufflepuffs. Checking one last time that no sound could be heard, Harry launched himself deftly onto the nearest table. Then he slowly stepped towards the delicate and fragile glass structures, painstakingly arranged by the meticulous proprietor of the property….
It was with something akin to ecstasy that he gave it a little swipe of his paw.
CRASH-CLANG-CRACK!
*TA DAAAA!*
He jumped like a crazy fool onto the neighboring table, giving the material he found there a big butt with his head, and so on. He was plunged into the most complete euphoria—oh, the temper that Snape would be in tomorrow—leaping here and there, smashing everything in his path, when….
"What in the world is…? NAME OF GOD!" swore a furious voice.
Ooooops. Snape had just put in an appearance on the threshold of a door to which, in all honesty, Harry had never paid attention, most of his Potions classes having been spent imagining with which horrible tortures he could finish off his professor. Still dressed, the man in question had just caught sight of the author of the devastation, and quickly planted himself in front of the exit, blocking all egress.
*Oh shiiiite….* Harry started to panic. All that was missing now was for Snape to recognize him and…. Gulp. At the dark look of daggers, he cautiously retreated.
"So," the man murmured, "you weren't taught good manners." His voice really did not bode well.
*Heeeeeeelp!*
Before Harry could decide between bolting under a cupboard or trying an all-out dash between Snape's legs, the latter leapt and grabbed him by the skin of his neck, carefully holding the scratching, spitting feline at arm's length.
"You don't really think you're getting away with this?" he asked him dryly as he took him into the next room.
*MUUUUM! DAAAAAD! I don't want to be dissected or end up an ingredient in I don't know which revooooolting potion. No-no-no-NOOOO! MERCY!*
They crossed through what Harry—his fur bristling as he tried to bite the hand firmly gripping him—vaguely realized was a sitting room, then into another room that turned out to be…a bathroom.
*Arrrrgggh! I'mgoingtohavemybellycutopenwithfingernailscissorsohMerlinhelpme—*
But instead, Snape tossed an already half-dead from fright Harry into the bathtub and turned the cold tap on full force.
"MEEEEEEOOOOOW!" *THAT'S COOOLD OOO OOO NOOOO!*
"You're welcome," Snape mockingly lectured the cat which scrabbled every which way, letting out screeches that were almost human. Unfortunately, the firm hand of the Potions Master held him mercilessly under the cold jet.
At the end of three minutes, it was a little ball of soaking, pitifully shaking, wet fur that the man took from the bathtub. Freezing, Harry had given up and abandoned any further idea of rebellion. Expecting the worst, it was with incredulity that he felt a wonderfully soft towel wrap around him, and the hands that had been squeezing him just a moment before started to gently rub him, while a mocking voice arose.
"I think you've understood a little now…."
Still a little dazed, Harry contented himself by replying with an indignant growl. The man smiled—Harry gaped at the sight of it—and ran his hand along his back.
"Go. Go back and see your master or mistress," he concluded as he set him onto the floor.
The Boy Who Lived left without further ado, crossed through the sitting room and laboratory at great speed, and fled post-haste to his dormitory,
***
"Aaaah chooo!"
"Bless you…."
"Sniiiff. Sank you."
So...he had a bad cold.
Even so, difficult to go and complain to Snape about it.
Harry sighed. After all, the adventure hadn't ended too badly. It was true—Snape could have recognized him and forced him to take his original form. Considering that he had still only imperfectly mastered the transformation of his clothing, and would have appeared in his most natural apparel…. Harry shuddered and thought to himself that, as it turned out, the adventure had ended very well—aside from the cold.
Still…he would've never thought that Snape…. Well, that he…that…he…could be…. Well, that he could act any differently than the revolting thing that taught them Potions. The man had almost seemed to enjoy himself. What was the world coming to..?
"AHHHCHOOO!"
"How did you manage to catch such a cold?" Ron asked, feigning admiration.
*I got into a scrape with Snape in a bathtub—oh my God!*
"Don' nah…a draft…."
"Potter and Weasley," interrupted McGonagall's voice. "When you have finished talk—"
"AAAAHCHOOOO!"
The class was filled with a respectful silence.
"Sniiiff. Bexcuse me."
"Are you all right, Mister Potter?" the professor asked worriedly.
The Boy Who Lived's nose was quite a pretty shade of pink vermillion.
"Sokay, sokay. I…AHHH—"
"Mister Potter, I—"
"—CHOOO!"
"…I think that you…"
"AHHHCHOOO!"
"…should go to the infirmary. Go."
Harry left the room, his nose in his handkerchief, cursing all the potions masters on the planet. Well, all right, so he was the one who had started it….
"MWAAACHAAA!"
"Mister Potter, when you've finished spraying your germs to the winds, would you be so kind as to step aside and clear the way?" snapped a dry voice behind him.
Harry shifted slightly to let him by, and the Snape in question, pushing a cartful of intact distillation apparatuses, gave him a suspicious glance as he passed.
When he saw the man round the bend in the corridor, Harry decided that, cold or no cold, he would find a way to pay the man back for the shower.
***
The best method for selecting the appropriate revenge was to perhaps first gather information on the enemy.
The door to the laboratory was still ajar. As a matter of fact, just about all of the doors in the castle were left ajar. It was more practical. He made his way into the adjacent room and cautiously checked it out. A little shocked, he admitted that it was nothing like what he expected of the habitat of 'Severus Potionus Snapus'. The room was large, warm, and tastefully lighted. A thick rug covered the floor, and the walls were covered with sundry books. It was very homey.
*Pffft. Surely the prior occupant...* he told himself without really believing it.
The master of the premises was seated behind an imposing desk, and was correcting, with a lack of conviction, a mountain of papers. Harry padded up and stopped beside him, sat on his hindquarters, and then swished his tail.
"Meow."
The man didn't react, scratching what looked like a pretty zero on the paper.
"MEOW!"
Snape took a look at him. "Ah, it's you," he said distractedly. "I don't have time. Go away…."
He turned back to his work, leaving there a Harry gaping with indignation. But no! His respectable feline's scorned sense of honor would not allow this.
Harry leapt onto the man's lap and sat there tranquilly, his chin resting on the edge of the desk so he could watch what Snape was writing. The latter let out a sigh, then decided to ignore him and continue his work.
"Neville Longbottom: an enthralling paper, Mister Longbottom. About as fascinating as the contemplation of a black hole. 3/20."
*Hey…this is my class….*
"Hermione Granger: the assignment was not to present your opinion on the question in six parchments, Miss Granger, but to furnish a brief summary, a concept that your brain seems to have difficulty comprehending. 7/20."
*Arsehole….*
"Draco Malfoy: despite a few careless mistakes, a well-structured assignment, nicely detailed with several personal examples. 14/20."
*You shite.*
"Harry Potter…."
*Ah.*
Snape carefully ran over the paper that Harry had spent two hours to write up, determined to show the man that he was perfectly capable of intelligent reasoning on a Potions topic—really just wanting to shut him up. He was, all in all, rather proud of his assignment.
The Potions Master grabbed his quill. "Mediocre. 5/20." No other comments.
*"FUCK IT!"*
Harry jumped onto the desk, and with a swipe of his paw spilled the ink-pot onto his paper, then promptly dashed off.
"Fermatum!"
The door slammed shut in front of his nose, and he had just enough time to bolt under one of the bookcases. Quivering, he hid himself at the very back.
Two sturdy shoes, flanked by the folds of a heavy cloak, approached and then stood still. Snape knelt with an annoyed cluck of his tongue, then his face appeared, and his black eyes scanned under the piece until they connected with Harry's.
"That's enough. Come out from under there immediately," he ordered calmly.
Harry had learned, to his own detriment, to never trust the man when he spoke calmly. He didn't move.
"Out. Otherwise, it's the shower."
Harry felt his fur stand on end at the memory of the dreadfully cold water trickling everywhere: filling his ears, his nose, his eyes. Anything but that. He gave his professor a tearful look.
"Meeooooow…" he mewed adorably but without budging a whisker.
The man sighed. "All right. I will not do anything. But come out from there now."
Harry cautiously crawled out and tilted his head to look up at Snape, who had stood and was watching him thoughtfully.
"You're really intelligent, aren't you?" he murmured. "Very intelligent."
Oooops. That didn't sound good. It looked like he might suspect something….
Harry purred as he rubbed against his legs. Slightly surprised, the professor gracefully bent over to scratch at his ears.
"Bah. You're only a cat," he concluded as he ran his fingers through the thick fur.
Harry didn't answer. Quite simply because he was in bliss. *Ooooo yes…again. Mmm, that's good…. Wait, no, what am I doing?! I'm not a cat! Ah no, not the stomach. Not the…ehhhhh…a little lower…aaaahh yes….*
Snape had seated himself squarely on the floor and was gently scratching an ecstatic Harry. He purred like a motor, incapable of focusing on anything but the long, slender, supple fingers that were affectionately running all over his body. The man seemed to get as much pleasure out of it as he did, obligingly petting his chest, brushing his fur in the wrong direction, gently mocking him and making shivers of delight run up and down his spine. Gratefully, the cat took to licking the man's fingers, running his raspy little tongue over the delicate joints, when he abruptly remembered that he was supposed to be Harry Potter, and this was the man he detested most in the world—and vice versa.
With a soft cry, he turned back onto his paws and ran off through the finally opened door.
***
He had let Snape pet him. Taken out of context, it was scandalous.
"Harry, are you dreaming?" inquired Hermione.
"…er…yeah, I think so."
"Well, I hope it was worth it, because McGonagall just took five points from you."
*Oh shiiite.*
Harry tried again to concentrate on the Transfiguration of ducks into pressure-cookers, but then gave up. What in the world had come over him? Unless…. He sighed with relief. Of course. It had to be the form of his Animagus. The fact of transforming himself into a cat must have exerted some influence on him. He was almost positive that if he had been in his normal form, he would never have let Snape get within a meter of him, that is, the width of his Potions table.
He went back to work, his heart a little lighter. He was going to ask Professor McGonagall at the end of the class. So there. She would probably confirm it for him.
At the bell, he asked Ron and Hermione to wait five minutes for him, and then headed for the desk of the great reference on all things Animagi.
"Professor McGonagall?"
The woman looked up at him, mildly surprised.
"Mister Potter. What can I do for you?"
"Could I talk to you for a minute? If I'm not disturbing you, of course," he added quickly.
"Stop talking nonsense and sit down."
Harry took a place on the other side of the desk, and then hesitated, groping for words.
"I'm listening," said the witch as she rested her chin in her hands. "A problem?"
"Hmm…no, not really. Actually, I'd like you to tell me about…Animaguses."
"Animagi."
"Sorry. Animagi."
McGonagall looked at him curiously. "Do you have an ambition to become one, Mr. Potter?"
*If you only knew, my dear old woman.*
He forced a smile. "I doubt I have the courage for it, ma'am. No, I only wanted to understand a little…. Actually, what intrigues me is the choice of the animal into which Animagi transform, and the effects that it has on them."
"It's a good question." She seemed to collect her thoughts for a moment. "So...the choice of the animal itself is tied to a great number of more or less obvious criteria. The first is the wizard's character. Someone fundamentally excitable and dynamic will never transform into a jellyfish; in the same way, a shy, unassuming person will never become a lion, you understand?"
Harry nodded.
"The second principal criterion is that of the wizard's power. In general, Animagi change into animals of a modest or average size—I'd say from that of a mouse to, at maximum, that of a horse. The largest Animagus ever recorded was Griff Gayspark who transformed into a dragon, which was not very practical. Be that as it may, an ungifted wizard will never change into a large, impressive animal.
Harry thought back to Skeeter and smiled meanly.
"Which then brings us to the needs of the wizard. One generally becomes an Animagus with a precise goal in mind: discretion, intimidation, espionage, combat. I'm not claiming that it's sufficient to say 'I want to transform into a rooster so I can awaken my neighbors' to see yourself grow wings. Often this desire is unconscious, and it's not until after the fact that one understands the transformation."
A 'sneak' in order to spy.
"The last element is more complicated. In the dedicated reference works, one speaks of a sort of 'predestination'. I think that the best example I could give you is that of your god-father: 'Sirius', the star of the dog constellation, and 'Black' for the color—the slightly distracted and show-off temperament which rather corresponds to the playful nature of a dog…with a certain aggressiveness at times."
Harry felt his heart constrict as he thought of his godfather.
"I'm sorry," McGonagall said quickly. "Be that as it may, once the transformation takes place, it's no longer possible to change it. It's in no way hereditary, and I have no idea of into what you would transform," she concluded.
"And…once the animal is determined—can this choice have an effect on the character of the Animagus?"
His professor frowned. "I don't understand."
"Did my god-father want to run after butterflies? Or Pettigrew gnaw on twine?"
The woman smiled. "Or do I want to hunt mice? Frankly, no, Mister Potter. As I've already told you, the animal matches the character of the wizard, but has no influence whatsoever on the human. Other questions?"