Hogwarts' magic classes are all over the map.
There's Herbology, where first-years have to outwit mischievous Bouncing Bulbs; History of Magic taught by a ghost; and Potions, where a single moment's distraction earns you a brutal point deduction.
But the class most loved—and most difficult—is unquestionably Transfiguration.
In it, first-years can pour out their magic to change the matchstick in front of them, with almost no harsh procedures or complicated wandwork.
Professor McGonagall looks formidable, but her wondrous transfigurations leave the students spellbound. No one dislikes turning a teapot into a little elephant that sprays water from its trunk, and no one can resist making a quill stand up and dance.
Yet, despite their enthusiasm, few make quick progress. Even Hermione—fastest of the lot—has only managed to give the matchstick a rounded needle-head.
So when Sean turned a running mouse into a snuffbox—and then set it running again—most of the class crowded around and let out a collective "Woooow—"
[You practiced Intermediate Transfiguration once at Adept standard. Proficiency +100]
Sean had underestimated his Transfiguration talent; in just two weeks he'd reached Adept on Intermediate Transfiguration.
He wasn't the only one surprised. McGonagall's eye-wrinkles eased; a pleased light flashed behind her square glasses.
"Excellent, Mr. Green—truly excellent transfiguration. Five points to Ravenclaw!"
She strode up to him, ignoring the gasps around them; all she saw was the shy boy with the focused gaze.
"Come with me after class," she said softly.
Sean blinked, then murmured assent.
Class ended quickly; the first-years spilled out, leaving only Sean and Professor McGonagall.
She watched him, whispers from the corridor still drifting in—rumors that some Ravenclaw had earned more house points than anyone else, by a factor of two. The habitual severity in her eyes softened. She had brought a seed out of poor soil; now she watched it sprout.
"Come with me, Mr. Green."
She left the classroom at a brisk clip.
Her office wasn't far. Sean took in the little study on the second-floor corridor: a roaring fireplace; a window looking out at the Quidditch pitch, where students were already gathering—Gryffindor and Slytherin had Flying next.
"Show me the transfiguration again."
Without realizing it, her strict voice had gentled. Sean quickly understood: a private lesson, from Professor McGonagall herself.
…
When he left her office, his Intermediate Transfiguration had sharpened noticeably—and he held a Transfiguration notebook besides. She'd answered many of his questions and pointed him toward the essence of the art: a wizard's will. Like other magic, Transfiguration is swayed by emotion; strong feelings—grief, shock—will shake it, Animagi and Metamorphmagi included. After Sirius's death, for example, Tonks struggled to control her transformations—her hair turned a long, ashy brown, and she grew thinner.
In the corridor, Sean hurried for the dungeon. He hadn't gone to watch Gryffindor's Flying lesson like other Ravenclaws, much as it interested him. He always knew what he needed to do, not just what he wanted to do.
At dusk, Hogwarts' corridors felt under a slow-down charm. Torches leapt in their iron brackets, pulling long shadows; dozing portraits on the stone walls snored in even rhythms. As footsteps carried through the arcade to the west, the sun vanished from the panes and the air turned damp and heavy. A spiral stair sank behind a tapestry, cold seeping up the steps.
Sean slipped down, already thinking how he'd explain himself if he ran into Snape—and how he'd get out safely. Fortunately, he saw no one; his green eyes brightened at once.
In a rush he reached his cauldron: lit it, prepped ingredients, laid out his notes. He'd brewed at least ten cauldrons of the Cure for Boils; in his simulations, the number was tenfold. Every step was familiar—familiar enough to tweak.
The liquid gurgled in a way that calmed him; a thick, inky-green surface rose and popped with bubbles. The dried nettle and fang powders were ground to a jade-fine dust; Sean fed them in batches. Each addition spiked the boil, and the book said: stir three times to the right immediately—a half-stir more or less could ruin the lot.
He didn't do it.
Magic, he knew, is an idealist's miracle—but it can live alongside reason. Charms taught him that mental force matters, but crisp pronunciation and correct motion make spells easier to cast. Most first-years—and even many professors—haven't grasped this. If they had, the Levitation entry wouldn't just say "clear pronunciation, swish and flick," but what counts as clear, and how exactly to move—left or right, big or small?
Unfortunately, the wizarding world worships survival of the fittest. Talented witches and wizards practice by instinct until they succeed; the less gifted grind and grind until, Merlin willing, instinct finally arrives.
In Transfiguration he'd seen Michael flail the same wrong flourish ten times in a row. Sean, by contrast, recorded every right and wrong movement and vowel, then dug into the differences—sometimes running A/B tests until he was exhausted. Add a certain ancient intuition, and his Transfiguration soared.
So too with Potions. That intuition shows rarely, but when it does, he refuses to let it slip away. Now, he shifted his stirring arc, leaned into that fleeting sense, even nudged the heat up a hair.
Candlelight wavered. In a place he couldn't see, a pair of cold, shadowed eyes had surfaced in the dark.
~~~
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