The moment History of Magic ended, I was already on my feet. While the others trudged off to their next class or the Great Hall for an early lunch, I had only one destination in mind—the Room of Requirement.
I moved quickly through the castle corridors, the ancient stones echoing softly under my footsteps. I knew exactly where to go by now—the seventh floor corridor opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. As I walked past three times, my mind focused clearly on what I needed.
A place to master Transfiguration.
The door appeared silently, sliding into existence like it had always been there. I stepped inside, and the familiar room welcomed me once more.
The environment had already adapted to my intent—a wide, open space, well-lit, lined with practice dummies, wooden tables, and countless objects of varying material scattered about. Bookshelves brimmed with spell theory, and at the far end of the room stood a massive mirror, perfect for refining wand movement and precision.
I pulled out my wand—the yew wand, 13½ inches, phoenix feather core. The same as the original Tom Riddle's. I felt it vibrate softly in my hand, resonating with the energy inside me.
Then I opened the Transfiguration Notes from the system, pages shimmering faintly with magical light. These weren't Dumbledore's ordinary academic observations. These were advanced, system-translated techniques—refined knowledge distilled into raw understanding.
I began immediately.
"Lapifors!"
A wooden block on the table twisted and morphed into a rabbit, trembling slightly as if confused by its sudden existence.
I smiled faintly. Good start.
Then I reversed it with a flick. "Reverto!"
The rabbit folded back into lifeless wood.
But I wasn't satisfied. I wanted more. Deeper control. True mastery.
For hours, I pushed myself—transforming objects, reversing transformations, shaping matter into complex forms. A chair into a falcon. A pebble into a book. A quill into a miniature sword. Every motion was a study in precision, every failure a lesson in refinement.
The system assisted occasionally, whispering subtle guidance in my mind—how to adjust my intent, how to better channel magical energy through the wand's core, how to see the flow of form and essence in the world around me.
And the more I learned, the more I realized—Transfiguration wasn't merely about changing shape. It was about understanding the very essence of reality.
"Magic at its core," I murmured aloud, staring at a table that was now a living, breathing wolf, "is will made real."
That's what Dumbledore understood better than anyone. That's how he managed to stand at the top—how he suppressed not one, but two Dark Lords across two generations. Because Transfiguration isn't just a branch of magic. It's control over existence itself.
I took a deep breath, focusing on the next spell—a far more complex one from the system's notes.
"Avifors Maxima."
A burst of blue light erupted as several glass goblets shattered into a flock of crystalline birds, flying around the room in a glittering storm.
My wand hand tingled from the force. My magic surged—refined, powerful, alive.
Then I stilled the energy, focusing my mind, drawing the power back into calm precision.
Every cast was cleaner. Sharper. More natural. I could feel my control deepening to a level beyond anything a first-year should be capable of.
The system chimed quietly in my head:
[Congratulations. Skill Advancement: Transfiguration Mastery (Intermediate) unlocked.][Your control over magical essence and transformation has increased significantly.]
I lowered my wand, a satisfied smirk playing on my lips.
"Step by step," I whispered to myself, "I'll surpass Dumbledore. Then Grindelwald. Then anyone who's ever lived."
I turned toward the shelves, eyes gleaming with hunger for more knowledge.
Because Transfiguration wasn't just a subject.
It was the path to godhood.