At dawn, Theodore shook his roommates awake.
"Up, up—first period is Professor McGonagall. You don't want to be late for that."
Harry and the others snapped to. From yesterday's glimpse alone they knew she was strict—and she was their Head of House. Showing up late to her very first class? Nightmare fuel.
A few frantic minutes later, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Seamus stumbled out after Theodore, through the common room and into the corridor, hunting for the stairs to Transfiguration.
Despair arrived fast.
Hogwarts had one hundred and forty-two staircases and they moved. Even upper-years got turned around; first-years were doomed.
Worse—Argus Filch stood sentry near the Gryffindor stairs.
Ron whispered, blanching.
"That's Filch, the caretaker. I heard Fred and George complain about him daily. He hates students. And the worst part? If they grumble about any professor, Mum and Dad tell them off. When it's Filch… they just let it slide. We're done for—he'll pick us apart."
Theodore, however, strolled up with a sunny nod.
"Good morning, Mr Filch."
Filch paused, then produced a stiff, unused, "Good morning," and pointed.
"Transfiguration's this way."
Theodore's smile deepened. He'd already memorised which staircase led where—and the patterns they cycled through. He just hadn't expected Filch to be here at dawn… waiting to point the way?
"Thank you, Mr Filch." He tugged Ron and company onto the indicated stairs.
Ron stared, half convinced it was a trap.
"He… helped us? Merlin. What if he sent us wrong to make us late?"
A minute later they stepped off directly before the Transfiguration classroom.
Theodore winked.
"See? Rumours snowball. A little courtesy goes a long way with Mr Filch. Try saying hello—you might find he isn't as icy as people claim."
Ron looked unconvinced, but there was no time to argue—half the year had gathered around the lectern, cooing over a handsome tabby on display.
"She's gorgeous."
"Does the school keep a cat?"
Theodore eased into the crowd. Across his vision, the System overlay bloomed:
The Investiture Calamity stirs. In the Jade Void Palace, Chan Sect Golden Immortals gather to preach for seven years. Treasure this rare chance, disciple.
You arrive at the preaching of Cihang Daoist. Master of transformation and manifested bodies, one of Chan's foremost Golden Immortals and a near-Quasi-Saint. Befriending Cihang yields boundless benefit.
Acquaintance with Cihang Daoist → Talent: Ten-Thousand Transformations. Perceive yin–yang shifts of myriad things; extraordinary affinity with transformation. With sufficient cultivation, myriad transfigurations come to hand.
Close Friend → Recipe: Refining the Clear Glazed Bottle. A premier spatial treasure: imprison foes to refine into blood-water, or store the waters of rivers and seas to condense elixirs that knit flesh and bone.
Life-and-Death Bond → Divine Power: External Incarnation. Divide innumerable avatars; combat power multiplies; assists cultivation; at perfection, the three corpses may be separated to step toward Quasi-Saint—few among Chan can achieve this.
Theodore's eyes warmed. Of course McGonagall mapped to a Chan Golden Immortal—and the transformation maestro at that. In later eras, Cihang would enter the Western School and be known to the world as Avalokiteśvara.
Even the "basic" acquaintance reward—Ten-Thousand Transformations—might rank just under Adamantine Body, Unclouded Mind. If he later fused similar talents, it could evolve even further. As for the Clear Glazed Bottle and External Incarnation… those were treasures immortals would duel over.
Professor McGonagall, we are absolutely becoming friends.
A few students, emboldened, reached toward the tabby only to be frozen by a single imperious look. Someone tried baiting her with a leftover breakfast sausage. Another flat, regal stare.
Please. Sausage? McGonagall had learned. In some past year a reckless child had tried catnip—nearly a catastrophe. Ever since, when she planned to "open class" as a cat, she pre-warded herself against catnip, silvervine—every trick in the book.
She'd rehearsed her opener and was merely waiting for the bell, ready to shift back, imprint Transfiguration's wonder on fresh minds, and—
"Awwww, what a cute kitty," Theodore said softly. "Come here, let me pet you."
He reached out.
McGonagall shot him a warning glare… then hesitated. Best not swat at a first-year. Maybe step aside—
A whisper of fragrance and a gentle, impossible warmth rolled from Theodore's palm, threading straight into the feline brainstem. Every prophylactic charm against catnip and silvervine collapsed without a sound.
Beast-Taming Sect craft was not a toy.
Her pupils unfocused.
What… is this scent…?
Theodore…
He smells… amazing.
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