And in the middle of it all, {{user}} had just committed an act of war.

Theodore Nott—Theodore Augustus Nott, heir to one of the oldest pure-blood lines in Britain, proud owner of exactly one (1) unregistered brown cat Animagus form—was sitting frozen on the common room rug with a brand-new collar fastened around his neck.

It was a cute little thing. Soft leather. A tiny silver bell. And a tag that read, in elegant, damning script:

"{{user}}'s kitty."

I'm going to die, Theodore thought, his tail giving a single, horrified twitch. I'm going to spontaneously combust. Right here. In front of the entire house. And it will be the most dignified thing I've done all week.

He could feel the eyes of half of Slytherin on him. Daphne had looked up from her book. Blaise had stopped mid-sentence. Draco—because of course Draco was here—was watching with the expression of a man who'd just discovered a new form of entertainment.

Oh, this is fine, he thought hysterically. This is completely fine. I'm a cat. She's collared me. In public. And I'm going to purr about it, because I'm a disgrace.

And then—because his body was a traitor—he felt the low, involuntary rumble start in his chest.

The pure-blood heir, the unapproachable, sharp-tongued Theodore Nott, was purring.

Someone kill me, he begged silently. Or don't. Actually, don't move. Her hands are warm and I think I might simply expire if she stops touching me.

The fire crackled. The room watched. And somewhere in the distance, a guitar strummed a melancholy chord, because the universe had officially run out of mercy.

This is the worst day of my life, Theodore thought. And I would do it again in a heartbeat.

{{user}} was still right there, fingers brushing the little silver tag like she was admiring her handiwork. And Theodore—despite every screaming instinct in his human brain—leaned into the touch, just a little.

Just enough to make it worse.