London. The same dark clouds that once hung ominously outside the Prime Minister's window now drifted over a filthy, sluggish river.
The river twisted like a snake, both banks choked with weeds and piles of trash. A massive, abandoned mill chimney loomed in the distance, grim and foreboding.
Nothing moved except the black water gurgling under the pouring rain. No birds, no people; just silence and decay.
Then, without warning, two figures appeared at the dead end of Spinner's End, as if they'd stepped straight out of thin air.
Rain seemed to slide around them. Strangest of all, the black-robed boy held a glowing stick of wood that cast a soft light (a wand).
If any Muggle had seen it, it would've made tomorrow's front page. Good thing there wasn't a living soul around.
"This way," Professor Snape muttered.
He led Sean straight to a spot marked months ago. Finding the buried potion was child's play.
Rain hammered down. Snape stood expressionless, waiting for the next flash of lightning.
A jagged bolt ripped across the sky. In that instant, Sean's heart pounded like a drum.
He flicked his wand. The muddy earth parted on its own, revealing a vial of potion that had turned blood-red.
Halfway there.
Hands trembling slightly with excitement, Sean uncorked it, pressed the tip of his wand to his chest, and spoke clearly:
"Amato… Animo… Animato… Animagus!"
Then he downed the potion in one gulp.
His heart thundered. Pain exploded through him as two heartbeats warred inside his chest; one his own, the other something ancient and wild trying to claim him.
It felt like something essential was rewriting him from the inside out.
He clenched his teeth. Professor McGonagall's warning echoed in his mind:
"You must show no fear! It's far too late to back out now!"
In the storm, Snape's black robes whipped around him. His face flickered between worry and fury. When he saw Sean's pale face twist in panic and his body start to shift in unnatural ways, something inside Snape snapped.
"I'm right here," he growled, stepping closer and saying the kind of useless comforting nonsense he normally despised.
Sean barely heard him. His vision filled with ghostly animal shapes. One stood out clearer than the rest: a huge black cat, sleek and brimming with life.
The first transformation hit.
Clothes melted into his skin, turning into fur and claws. Animal instincts roared to the surface, screaming at him to bolt, to crash into walls, to give in.
The urges were overwhelming. Even Sean couldn't fight them completely.
He picked one in less than a second.
The black cat had barely stretched out a paw when a pair of strong hands scooped it up by the scruff.
"Pathetic control!" Snape roared, as if yelling could hide how scared he'd been. "How in Merlin's name did Minerva let you attempt this?!"
Dangling in the air, the cat's head lolled. Slowly, reason trickled back.
Something was wrong. He could barely move properly, and changing back felt almost impossible.
The cat peered curiously into a puddle. Green eyes stared back at him.
Then he looked at Snape (who seemed unsure what to do next) and caught a strange mix of scents: old rust, damp metal… then suddenly fresh dew and grass.
Sean realized his Animagus form wasn't just a regular black cat. There was definitely some Kneazle in there too.
Probably because he'd eaten way too many Kneazle biscuits over the years, or because his soul had spent so long in Kneazle form during alchemy rituals. Maybe both.
He made a mental note to ask Professor Tela about the soul-transfiguration side of it later.
Still… Kneazle-cat was cooler than plain black cat, right?
He hadn't quite figured out the navigation instincts yet. Maybe that came later.
Possibly worried he'd bolt again, Snape carried him all the way inside and never took his eyes off him.
The house at the end of Spinner's End was small, dark, and cramped. The living room had threadbare furniture and walls lined with books. One hidden panel led to a narrow staircase; another to a tiny side room.
There was no proper front door anymore; walking in felt like stepping into a padded cell. Cobwebs draped every corner (years of emptiness had turned the place into a spider paradise).
Snape lit the fireplace. The black cat leaped (farther than any normal cat could) onto the mantel, shook itself, and sent a spray of rainwater all over Snape.
Snape glared, dripping, gave a loud huff, but said nothing.
Outside, the storm raged. Streetlamps flickered weakly. Rain washed trash into the river, making it even filthier.
Inside, the fire crackled warmly.
Snape sat reading, one eye always tracking the black cat as it clumsily explored the bookshelves, clearly still getting used to four legs.
It kept forgetting it had a tail (the tail just hung there limply). When it leaned in to test the fire's heat with its whiskers, it nearly singed them off.
Little disasters like that happened every few minutes.
Snape sipped steaming coffee. Two figures appeared on the street outside.
Barely half an hour later, a very anxious Professor McGonagall and a cheerfully unbothered Dumbledore arrived.
The doorbell rang.
Dumbledore beamed at Snape when he yanked the door open.
"Severus, what do you think of the black cat? My taste isn't half bad, is it…?"
SLAM. The door shut in his face.
Dumbledore didn't miss a beat. "People do hate admitting when someone else was right, don't they, Minerva?"
A minute later, the tiny house on Spinner's End was (for once) almost lively.
Soft voices filled the room, drowning out the howling storm.
The black cat curled on a cushion McGonagall had conjured the moment she walked in.
He sat there, tail flicking, lost in thought.