Chapter 9 — Brigid, The Cat
For a long moment, I could only stare at the ginger cat sitting on the garden wall, her eyes bright as emeralds in the snowlight.
I crouched down slowly, breath fogging in the cold.
"You're not an ordinary cat, are you?" I whispered.
The strange sensation that rolled off her wasn't just a feeling — it was a message. Warm, deliberate, and threaded with something I hadn't felt before: intelligence.
A soft meow came in reply, followed by a wave of calm that brushed against my mind. Not words — emotions. Images, impressions, memories. I could feel them, the way one might sense warmth from a fire without touching the flame.
It was the same talent Newt Scamander had, the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. A natural Magizoologist. The connection between magical creatures and wizards — the ability to sense, to listen. I hadn't thought it was real. Not like this. I will have to look into it later.
"You can… talk," I said, though it wasn't quite true. She wasn't speaking — she was feeling at me. And I was feeling back.
A soft thread of emotion reached out from her — curiosity, caution, and something deeper: protectiveness. Her gaze flicked toward the house, where Harry was asleep inside. The message was clear before I could even form the words.
Keep the cub safe.
I exhaled, my breath catching in the cold. "You're the Potters' cat, aren't you?"
The cat blinked, slow and regal, as if confirming it. A faint echo of sorrow rippled through our connection — a memory of a vanished home, of laughter now gone. Then warmth again, directed at me. Trust.
"You've been watching him all this time," I murmured. "Making sure he's alright."
Another meow. Agreement.
Something inside me tightened. This creature — this beautiful, clever little thing — had survived the cruel night that changed everything. It had stayed hidden, waiting, and guarding the little cub. Then it followed the cub to his new home. And was still guarding him.
"Well," I said softly, brushing snow off my knees, "you don't have to wait out here anymore."
Her tail twitched. A question — or perhaps surprise.
"I mean it," I said, smiling. "Come inside. Stay with us. There's warmth, food, and far fewer nuisances."
The cat's emotions shifted — hesitation melting into gratitude. Then, with the grace only cats possess, she jumped down from the wall and padded toward me through the snow.
When she reached me, she brushed against my leg once, deliberately. It wasn't affection so much as an acceptance. A pact.
"Welcome home, then," I said quietly, scooping her up. She didn't resist, just nestled into my arms as though she'd been waiting for the invitation all along.
Inside, the house was dim and warm. Everyone was asleep, the faint glow of Christmas lights still twinkling from the hall. I carried her upstairs and into my room.
She leapt from my arms onto the bed and curled immediately into a perfect, ginger circle. I sat beside her, listening to her purr, the soft vibration strangely comforting.
"Looks like we've both got secrets to keep," I whispered.
Her tail flicked once — amusement, if I had to guess.
---
The next morning began with a shout.
"Arthur Dursley! Why is there a cat on the sofa?!"
Mum's voice could probably have woken the dead. The ginger cat blinked at her serenely, then went back to grooming her paw.
I came down the stairs, rubbing my eyes. "Oh, that's Brigid."
"Brigid?" Vernon repeated, lowering his newspaper. "When did we get a cat?"
"Last night," I said simply. "She turned up outside, and I thought she looked cold. She's… um… Harry's cat."
Mum blinked. "Harry's cat?"
"Yes. From before," I said carefully. "The Potters had one, remember? She's been around ever since he came here. I think she was guarding him."
That earned me three identical expressions of disbelief.
Vernon set down his paper. "Guarding? Arthur, she's a cat. They don't guard anyone unless there's tuna involved."
"She's different," I said calmly. "She's clever. You can feel it. And she wanted to stay."
Petunia folded her arms. "And how, exactly, do you know all that? Did she tell you herself?"
"Yes. But not in words," I said.
Vernon frowned. "Then how?"
I hesitated. The cat had jumped onto the armchair now, tail neatly curled, watching us like an amused spectator. Her eyes met mine, steady and knowing, and I could feel that same pulse of warmth — quiet encouragement.
I looked back at my parents.
"Well," I said slowly, "that's… a bit complicated."
Their expressions shifted from confusion to suspicion.
"Arthur," Mum said, voice lowering. "What do you mean, complicated?"
Before I could answer, the cat let out a soft meow, like a whisper, and her tail flicked again.
I smiled faintly, sensing the tension. "Let's just say," I said, "there's a bit more to her — and to me — than meets the eye."
Silence. Mum stared. Vernon blinked.
And in that silence, the truth began to stretch its wings, ready to break free.
End of Chapter 9 — Brigid, The Cat
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