Hermes stood frozen. He recognized the Knockback Jinx well enough, but he'd never imagined it could shatter a Protego.
Under normal circumstances, the jinx would bounce off a Shield Charm or cancel out against it. Regulus's version carried so much raw force that the barrier's structure simply couldn't hold.
In the half-second he spent processing that, Regulus's wand finally moved.
"Incendio."
A ball of flame hurtled toward him.
Hermes had no time to cast a second Protego. He didn't have the power for one anyway. He tried to dodge and couldn't.
He threw both arms over his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and braced for the end.
But the fire reached him and bloomed outward instead of striking, wrapping around his body like a shell. Then it flashed.
Blinding white light erupted across the arena. Cuthbert and Alex turned away simultaneously, eyes clenched shut.
A wave of heat rolled over them, fierce but brief. A tenth of a second, maybe less.
The light died.
Hermes was still standing. Unburned, unhurt. His hair, however, was a different story.
What had been straight black locks was now a wild puff of tight curls.
He reached up and touched his hair. His fingers met the curled ends and stopped. He lowered his hand.
The arena went quiet for a few seconds.
Cuthbert broke first. He doubled over, howling, arms clutching his sides.
Alex followed, though quieter, hand clamped over his mouth.
Joy and suffering don't always travel the same road. Hermes wasn't laughing.
He stood there looking at Regulus for a long time.
Then he walked over to where Cuthbert and Alex were standing by the wall. Turned around. Faced Regulus in the center of the arena.
He was done fighting it. Beaten, convinced, and from here on out, committed.
Regulus stowed his wand and walked over to them.
"That's enough for today." His tone hadn't shifted, flat and unhurried, as if nothing had happened. "Go eat. There are afternoon classes."
The four of them left the Room of Requirement. The door sealed behind them, and the corridor stretched empty in both directions. It was already lunchtime.
On the way to the Great Hall, Cuthbert was still buzzing, replaying every detail at full volume.
"Did you see that stone spike? The thing was glowing red!"
"And the Incendio? I thought he was going to set Hermes on fire for real."
Alex murmured agreement here and there, but his eyes kept drifting to Hermes.
Hermes walked in silence, hand rising occasionally to touch the ruined curls, his face blank.
But Regulus could feel it. That stubborn thorn of defiance that had lodged itself under Hermes's skin was gone.
Exactly as he'd predicted from the start. A raw display of power, an overwhelming gap made visible. The simplest method was the most effective.
Not that fighting Hermes qualified as a warm-up.
Regulus felt nothing particular about it. He understood the distance between them with clinical clarity.
It went beyond technique or knowledge.
It was a fundamental difference in the tier of power they operated on.
When two wizards existed on different levels entirely, combat could be elegant, leisurely, almost ceremonial in its grace. Like an adult facing a child. No need for full effort, no need for tricks. Standing still was enough.
It had been the same in Knockturn Alley against those four dark wizards. He'd stood in place, cast, and they'd dropped.
The duel with his father, Orion, had been different.
That fight had required real movement, anticipation, tactics. Wide shifts in stance, precision in every spell, airtight defense, decisive counters.
Because Orion operated on a higher tier. The gap just wasn't insurmountable.
A thought drifted through Regulus's mind. At my current level, when someone truly powerful fights me... Dumbledore, Voldemort... is it as effortless for them as it was for me against Hermes?
The thought completed its circuit and he let it go.
No point dwelling on it. The answer was obviously yes.
---
Late March brought warmer weather to Hogwarts.
Most of the snow around the castle had melted.
In Transfiguration, Professor McGonagall's lesson for the day was advanced inanimate-to-animate transformation: turning a carved wooden bird into a real one, capable of flight and song.
"The key lies in understanding the boundary between life and non-life." She stood at the front of the classroom, wand moving in a light, precise arc.
The carved wooden nightingale on her desk began to tremble. Feathers sprouted from the grain of the wood. Its eyes shifted from dull paint to bright, living alertness.
"Transfiguration cannot create life. It grants a form of functional vitality. Be clear on this that a transfigured creature possesses no true soul. Its behavior is driven entirely by the magic sustaining it."
She completed the spell and the nightingale lifted off the desk, circled the room once, then landed on the windowsill and began to sing.
The song was clear and sharp, its wingbeats strong. But careful observation revealed patterns. Every third lap it made the same turn. Every fifth call was followed by a distinct pause.
"Now, begin." McGonagall surveyed the room. "One carving each. Finish before class ends. Remember, the goal is the feeling of life, not merely the appearance."
Regulus received a carved wooden owl. He raised his wand and tapped it once.
The surface began to shift. A warm sheen spread across the wood as the grain stretched outward, splitting into fine, layered feather patterns.
The body swelled slightly. Wings unfolded from either side. Talons separated from the base.
Two points of amber light kindled where the eyes had been. The head swiveled. A soft, low hoot.
When it was done, the wooden owl had become a living one. Or close enough that no one could tell the difference.
It stood on the desk, tilting its head at Regulus. Its wingspan stretched half a meter, feathers layered in sharp detail.
McGonagall walked over and inspected it closely.
She reached out and brushed a wing. The feathers were soft, springy under her fingers.
She prompted it to fly. It circled the classroom twice, landed on Regulus's shoulder, and began preening with its beak.
"Perfect." She nodded, expression stern, though approval flickered in her eyes. "Complete form, strong vitality, natural movement. Ten points to Slytherin."
"Thank you, Professor," Regulus said with a polite nod.
McGonagall returned it, then turned and moved on to check the others.
The Slytherin and Ravenclaw first-years around him had long since stopped being surprised by this sort of thing. A few glanced at the owl with idle curiosity, then went back to wrestling with their own transfigurations.
Regulus raised his arm, and the owl glided down to perch on it.
He could feel the rhythm of magic cycling through its body, a stable, looping structure of power that maintained the transfiguration's effect.
When the bell rang, most students had managed the basics. Their carvings could move and call, but the details were rough, the movements jerky, the sounds like wood scraping against wood.
Only a handful had produced anything convincing. Regulus's was flawless.
Students packed up and filed out.
Cuthbert, Alex, and Hermes looked toward Regulus. He hadn't moved from his seat, still watching the owl.
The three exchanged a glance, said nothing, picked up their bags, and left.
They knew the pattern by now. If he stayed behind after class, he had questions for the professor.
Early on, they'd waited. Then they noticed his conversations with the professors kept running longer and longer, and they stopped.
The classroom emptied quickly. McGonagall tidied her desk, looked up, and saw Regulus still there. One eyebrow rose slightly.
"Mr. Black, come to my office."
He stood. The owl settled on his shoulder.
He followed her out of the classroom, down the corridor, and into the Transfiguration professor's office.
McGonagall settled into the chair behind her desk and gestured him to the one opposite.
"You've absorbed the notes?" she asked, hands folded on the desk.
"Memorized them," Regulus said. "Still practicing."
He drew two objects from his pocket: a diamond, clear and brilliant, and a lump of dark gray graphite.
His wand rose and tapped the diamond.
It began to change. The transparent crystalline structure contracted inward as molecules rearranged themselves. Color shifted from clear to dark gray, hardness gave way to softness, and a layered texture appeared across the surface.
Diamond became graphite.
Another tap. The process reversed. The layered structure collapsed as molecules rebuilt into a three-dimensional lattice. Gray darkened back to transparency. Soft became hard.
Graphite became diamond.
The entire sequence was smooth, controlled. No stray magic leaked from the transformation, no flicker of structural instability, no failed halfway state.
Diamond and graphite shifted back and forth.
McGonagall watched, and the approval in her gaze deepened noticeably.
She could tell he hadn't just memorized the notes. He'd put in serious hours of practice.
---
200PS plzzz
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