Professor McGonagall wasted absolutely no time.
The moment the classroom settled—if settled could be used loosely after Alexander Chen's entrance—she flicked her wand, and a stack of thick books slapped onto every desk.
"Transfiguration is not magic performed by instinct, luck, or enthusiasm," she said sharply.
"It is a precise, demanding discipline governed by law, theory, and restraint."
Alexander stared at the book.
Magical Transfiguration: Theory and Practice.
It looked like it could defeat a small troll if dropped from a height.
"You will read chapters one through three," McGonagall continued, "before attempting anything practical. Those chapters explain what not to do."
A few students groaned.
Alexander flipped the book open and skimmed.
Equivalent Exchange. Molecular integrity. Intent alignment.
…Huh.
This was actually familiar.
McGonagall paced the room.
"Improper Transfiguration can result in permanent deformation, partial transformation, or explosive failure. Do not attempt shortcuts."
Her eyes flicked—briefly—to Alexander.
He smiled politely.
After it looked like everyone was done reading.
With a tap of her wand, McGonagall placed a small box of matchsticks on each desk.
"Your task," she said, "is to transfigure the match into a needle.
Metallic. Functional. Clean."
She demonstrated once—clean, elegant, perfect.
Then stepped back.
"Begin."
The room filled with murmurs, wand flicks, and immediate regret.
One matchstick puffed into smoke.
Another turned rubbery.
Someone's bent into something resembling a toothpick with commitment issues.
Alexander held his matchstick between his fingers, studying it.
He didn't rush.
He remembered his parents' lessons.
Control first. Intent second. Magic last.
He raised his wand.
A smooth flick.
Clear focus.
The matchstick shimmered—
—and became a perfectly straight, silver needle.
Sharp. Balanced. Real.
Alexander blinked.
"…Nice."
McGonagall stopped mid-step.
She turned slowly.
Walked over.
Picked up the needle.
Examined it closely.
No flaws. No residue.
"Ten points to Ravenclaw," she said crisply.
A ripple of whispers spread through the room.
Alexander gave a small nod and immediately leaned toward Cho.
"Okay," he whispered, "don't force it. Think replacement, not conversion. You're not changing wood—you're convincing reality it was always metal."
Cho stared at him.
"…That made weird sense."
She tried again.
Her match shimmered—then formed into a slightly crooked but unmistakable needle.
Her eyes widened.
"I did it!"
McGonagall watched from the front, arms crossed.
If only, she thought, he didn't open his mouth so often.
Alexander wasn't a genius.
He knew that.
But good parents.
Early training.
A solid foundation.
Magic, to him, felt… cooperative.
The bell rang.
Students packed up quickly, buzzing with excitement.
McGonagall cleared her throat.
"Mr. Chen."
Alexander froze.
"Yes, Professor?"
She met his eyes.
"Excellent work today. Don't ruin it."
Alexander smiled.
"Statistically unlikely, but I'll try."
As he dashed out of the classroom, catching up to his roommates.