Chapter 3
"What the hell is that idiot doing now?" I jerked upright in alarm, quickly exchanging glances with the slightly confused Dudley and Gordon, who were walking a little behind me and did not immediately realize what I had reacted to so sharply. A moment later, though, the boys noticed it too—our mutual "friend," Piers Polkiss, was for some reason poking a soggy cardboard box with a long stick. The box had been soaked through by the recent rain.
"Damn it, I hope this isn't what I think it is," I cursed inwardly, with each step hearing more clearly the drawn-out squealing coming from the box. It was not very loud, but it was so desperate that I could not mistake it for anything else.
"Oh, guys, check out what I found," the skinny boy with gray eyes and unpleasant features perked up the moment he noticed us.
"Are those kittens?" Gordon leaned over the box with undisguised curiosity. His family was known almost all over Little Whinging as obsessive cat lovers. They had five or six cats at home... which was exactly why the boy himself did not like them much, unlike his parents.
"Yeah. Funny little things, squealing nonstop," Piers smirked, continuing to poke the face of a gray fluffball with the stick. There were three furry little creatures in the box. They were no longer blind, with soft-looking fur, but still far too small and helpless to climb out on their own.
"They're hungry... and stop poking them with that stick. You'll damage their eyes," I said sharply to probably the most antisocial member of Dudley Dursley's little group... and immediately snatched away his instrument of torture. The boy, who looked something like an especially scruffy rat, lunged at me at once.
"Pfft! So what? Old Mr. and Mrs. Bagsley threw these freaks out of the house anyway. I'm sure nobody'll say a word if we drown them... I heard that's what people usually do with unwanted kittens," Piers snarled, trying in vain to get his stick back, only to receive a firm smack across the hand, which made him step back a couple of paces.
Dudley and Gordon did not rush to interfere. They were already used to Piers and me constantly clashing over one thing or another. Thankfully, Piers had taken after his mother in build—just as skinny, pale, and short. And cowardly too, like the exact same mouse he resembled... After getting punched in the face by me a couple of times, he no longer seemed eager to pick a direct fight, always trying first to get Dudley or someone else from our little gang onto his side.
"Maybe I should drown you instead. I've heard that after an extreme swim, some people's brains start working properly," I glared at the budding animal torturer, who, as far as I knew, had never objected to tormenting animals before... It was just that I had never caught him in the act until now.
I did not always spend time with Dudley and his friends, after all. Since the school year started, choosing company had become easier. I had even recently signed up for the music club after our homeroom teacher, who supervised it, kept urging me to join... And who cared that besides me, it was all girls and Oliver the crybaby, who at eight years old still sometimes could not make it to the toilet in time.
The important thing was that the club served as an excellent excuse not to come home too early. And Professor Port's awkward attempts to teach us how to play the children's violin or piano were not that bad either. I actually enjoyed all those efforts to squeeze something even remotely resembling a melody out of an instrument. On top of that, I was improving the flexibility of my wrists and my fine motor skills. I had a feeling that would come in handy someday...
"What'd you say, four-eyes!? Acting tough again?" Although right now, to be honest, a boxing club would help me more than music lessons. I had been throwing my fists around far too often lately. For some reason, the boys wandering the streets of our suburb all day had absolutely no ability or desire to settle things with words. "Big D! Tell him already!"
"Piers..." Dudley hesitated a little, having recently gotten pretty good at recognizing when his "best friend" was openly trying to manipulate him. "Drowning kittens isn't cool."
"Oh yeah? Then what do you suggest we do with them? Leave them here?" the little rat snapped irritably, glaring at his taller, sturdier friend as though he were the enemy of the people.
"No," my chubby-cheeked cousin shook his head firmly. "We should take them back where you found them... Or find them new owners..."
"My God, is that Dudley actually suggesting reasonable solutions for once?" I thought with amused surprise as I watched him. "At this rate, after a couple more years around me, he might actually turn into a human being. I'll be proud of myself."
"What? Who even cares?" Piers, on the other hand, was hopeless. A vicious little beast, angry at the whole world. Zero empathy, zero compassion for anyone around him. Even Gordon, the biggest cat-hater in our group, was not rushing to argue with Dudley's idea. He understood that, really, the kittens should be found owners. Little Whinging was a fairly large town full of private houses. Finding homes for three kittens should not have been that hard.
Or so I thought, completely ignoring Piers and suggesting to my friends that we walk along the main street looking for new owners for the squeaking balls of fur... At first, it all seemed like a very easy task. Even though Piers refused to take part in the whole thing and wandered off somewhere on his own, the three of us—Dudley, Gordon, and I—were still enough to carry the large, tall box with the kittens all over the street.
The real problem was that we had picked a terrible time for the search. School ended early for us, but most adults were still at work at two in the afternoon. So whenever someone answered the door, it was usually elderly people who already had pets and had no desire to expand their household zoo. Only one elderly couple surprised us by taking in two of the little fluffballs at once, leaving us with just one kitten still in our hands.
"Damn, where do we go now? Gordon, maybe your place? Your family definitely won't say no," Dudley puffed thoughtfully, already thoroughly tired and covered in dirt after our tour of every nearby and not-so-nearby neighbor.
"No, no, no! I definitely do not need a seventh one!" the boy protested almost hysterically. "I'm already sick of cleaning litter boxes for those little devils. At this point, the cats in our house are about to take up more space than me and my parents..."
"All right, all right, calm down," Big D let out a heavy sigh, staring thoughtfully at the dark gray kitten huddled in the corner of the box. After the last few hours, it had grown too tired to keep squeaking and had simply fallen asleep without getting any food at all. None of us even had enough money for milk today, and none of us wanted to beg the shopkeepers for food... not even for a kitten.
"Maybe we should take him home with us," I suggested to my cousin, instantly making him stare at me in shock. "Aunt Petunia will definitely be angry if we bring him home..."
"She'll never agree! Mum wouldn't even let me get a dog for my birthday!" Dudley interrupted, knowing his mother well enough.
"You didn't let me finish," I cut off the overexcited boy. "Of course Aunt Petunia will never willingly let a pet into the house... At least not unless she sincerely feels sorry for the little guy," I smirked, inwardly wincing a bit, not entirely sure whether I really needed any of this.
"Feel sorry for the kitten?" the plump, rosy-cheeked boy frowned, as always not exactly dazzling with intelligence.
"Tell her that Piers and I were going to drown him, and you, like a brave knight, saved the adorable little creature, who now needs a new home and a good meal," I drawled, watching with mild despair how slowly my words made their way into the little troublemaker's head. He was not especially bright, took a long time to digest complex sentences, and thought even slower than that.
That was just how he was. Slow and spoiled, even if he had started improving little by little recently. Watching me, he had even expanded his vocabulary a bit...
"Uh... That might work," my cousin finally nodded after a genuinely long pause. "But they'll lock you in the cupboard. For three days for sure."
"Well, I already hid Alice in Wonderland under my mattress, so it's not a big deal," I shrugged, exaggerating just a little. But not by much... I really did feel sorry for the kitten, and... something inside me was drawn to that tiny defenseless bundle. I was not sure whether it was magic or just self-deception.
But when it came to wizardry, it was rare to be certain of anything at all. So I was ready to risk a few days of unbroken boredom in exchange for the chance not only to claim the kitten for myself, but also to finally figure out what exactly my "magical" feelings meant. What if the creature in my hands was not just some ordinary cat, but a real magical beast?
As far as I remembered, in the world of Harry Potter... strange as that sounded, especially considering my current name, there were some magical cats. I did not remember what they were called, but I knew for certain that Hermione had one, or at least a half-breed version of one. So I quite reasonably assumed that I might have stumbled onto just such a rare little wonder.
"I don't know why I need a magical cat, especially one that might turn out to be perfectly ordinary, but I'm not backing out of the plan now," I told myself inwardly, saying goodbye to Gordon and heading home with Dudley, carrying the box with the kitten... I had briefly considered getting rid of the extra cardboard.
But if Aunt Petunia completely dug in her heels and refused to allow pets in the house, then at least the kitten could spend the night in that box if it came to that... In the end, though, it did not come to that. The kitten, who was named Milo, somehow managed to win over even Aunt Petunia, who had previously hated household animals with a passion.
Magic, damn it... But good magic, the kind that let me examine and inspect our new family pet in detail. Uncle Vernon, by the way, ended up liking the gray rascal too, which was why my punishment for the "attempt to drown such a handsome fellow" was stretched out quite a bit.
And Milo himself was partly to blame for that too, because for some reason he had recognized me as his owner and would not let anyone else hold him. Especially if I had not personally handed him over to the arms of my not-so-beloved relatives. Without that little ritual, the willful young cat scratched, bit, and hissed at any attempt to pick him up... And in general, the gray bastard behaved like the absolute king and master of our house.
A couple of months later, after he had grown a bit stronger, he even started chasing off the neighborhood cats. That fluffy menace especially hissed with furious malice at the huge, insolent cats belonging to old Mrs. Figg next door... And the remarkable thing was that they usually backed off from the tiny aggressor, who after such skirmishes would return to me in the cupboard looking practically ceremonial... head high, tail straight up, stride proud as cavalry.
Definitely a magical cat. An ordinary animal simply could not be that intelligent... Lately, he had even started slowly understanding my commands. He did not always obey them, of course, the stubborn furry little swine, but he definitely understood me. I could see it in his eyes. He understood everything.