The conclusion of the Potions class held no suspense.
When Professor Slughorn announced that time was up and asked all the students to bottle and submit their potions, Regulus's finished product looked completely out of place on the podium.
The liquids in the other flasks were either the wrong color or cloudy with impurities; some were even bubbling suspiciously.
Only Regulus's potion, a clear, light-green liquid, gleamed with a healthy luster in its glass vial, completely free of any sediment when left to settle.
Slughorn held the vial up to the light and studied it for a long time, an unconcealed joy radiating from his plump face.
"A paradigm!" he announced loudly, his voice echoing in the dungeon classroom. "Mr. Black, the quality of this potion has reached the 'Outstanding' standard. Tell me, did you use any special techniques?"
"I merely processed the ingredients strictly according to their properties, Professor," Regulus answered calmly.
"The snake fangs must be completely crushed and dissolved; the magic in the porcupine quills is most concentrated at the tips; and the neutralizing effect of the fluxweed requires precise timing."
Slughorn's eyes lit up. "You mentioned the magic being most concentrated. Is this something you observed yourself?"
"Yes, Professor. By sensing the faint magic emitted by the materials."
This remark sparked a flurry of whispers. Sensing the magic of materials? Is that a skill a first-year should have mastered?
Slughorn gave Regulus an appreciative look and didn't press further, simply nodding. "Come to my office after class, Mr. Black."
After class, Regulus spent ten minutes in Slughorn's office.
The plump professor enthusiastically introduced his collection of rare ingredients, hinted at the existence of the Slug Club, and gifted him a small vial of Felix Felicis as encouragement.
Although it was a diluted version, it was already an astonishing gift for a first-year.
"Maintain this talent, my boy," Slughorn said, patting his shoulder as he saw him out. "Potions requires not just deft hands, but keen perception. You have that gift."
Regulus nodded in thanks. As he left the office, he tucked the vial of diluted Felix Felicis into the inside pocket of his robes. If used well, this thing could save a life; if used poorly, it was nothing but trouble.
Transfiguration class took place in a brightly lit classroom on the second floor. The windows were large, sunlight was abundant, and the air carried the faint scent of wood and parchment.
Professor McGonagall was already waiting at the podium. She wore emerald-green robes, her hair pulled back into a strict bun, and her expression was severe.
"Transfiguration," she began after all the students were seated, "is the most complex, most dangerous, and most elegant discipline in magic. It requires precise incantations, clear intent, and an understanding of matter."
She raised her wand and gave a light tap. A matchstick on the podium turned into a silver needle.
"Today, we will start with the absolute basics: turning a match into a needle."
The matches were distributed, and the students began their attempts.
The classroom was soon filled with the sounds of various mumbled incantations and waving wands. Most of the students' matches merely twisted and deformed into strange objects somewhere between a match and a needle.
Regulus picked up the match on his desk and observed it carefully.
This match was a stable material structure: the arrangement of the wood fibers, the composition of the sulfur head, its overall shape and density.
Transfiguration could alter this complete structure, rearranging the wood fibers into a metal crystal structure, transforming the sulfur into a silver needle tip, all while maintaining the continuity and integrity of the object.
He raised his wand and softly chanted the incantation: "Vera Verto."
The tip of the wand gave just a light tap.
The match quivered on the desk, then began a progressive transformation.
The wooden part turned from brown to silver-white, the grain disappeared, and the surface became smooth. The sulfur head contracted and reshaped, becoming a sharp needle tip.
The entire process lasted three seconds. When it ended, a perfect silver needle lay on the desk, the eye of the needle clear, the shaft perfectly straight.
Professor McGonagall happened to be patrolling past his desk.
She stopped, looked down at the needle, then picked it up and examined it against the light.
"A perfect transfiguration," there was a trace of surprise in her voice. "Formed on the first try, without repeated attempts, and with no material residue. Mr. Black, have you practiced this spell before?"
"I have practiced the principles, Professor," Regulus replied. "But today is my first time applying it to turning a match into a needle."
"The principles?"
"Regarding the stability of material structures and conversion efficiency." Regulus took the opportunity to ask a question. "I have been pondering a question, Professor. May I ask it?"
Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow slightly. "Speak."
"The purpose of Transfiguration is to change an object," Regulus picked up the silver needle. "From a match into a needle. But in this process, what exactly are we changing?
"Is it the essential attributes of the object, or merely its physical manifestation? If it is the former, then has the match truly become a needle? If it is the latter, then what is the difference between this and an illusion?"
The classroom fell silent. A few students who were still wrestling with their matches looked up.
Professor McGonagall's expression grew more focused. She stared at Regulus for a few seconds, then said slowly, "That is a question only an upper-year student would ponder, Mr. Black."
"But I would very much like to know the answer, Professor."
Professor McGonagall set down the silver needle, walked to the front of the podium, and faced the class.
"Mr. Black has posed a profound question. The fundamental difference between Transfiguration and an illusion lies in material continuity.
"An illusion is a false image created out of thin air, with no material basis. Transfiguration, however, is the guidance of existing matter to reorganize along a path set by magic."
She picked up another match, tapped it with her wand, and it turned into a feather.
"This feather," she held it up, "was once a match. Its material foundation has not disappeared; it has merely been rearranged. That is why true Transfiguration requires an understanding of the essence of matter.
"You need to know how the structure of wood transforms into the structure of a feather. You need to guide this conversion process, not just change the outward appearance."
She looked at Regulus. "Does this answer satisfy you?"
"Partially, Professor." Regulus bowed slightly in his seat. "But it leads to another question. If Transfiguration is merely material reorganization, then what about Vanishing Spells?
"A Vanishing Spell makes an object disappear completely. Where does its matter go? Or is a Vanishing Spell an extreme form of Transfiguration, transforming an object into nothingness?"
This time, even Professor McGonagall fell silent.
You could hear a pin drop in the classroom. Everyone was looking at the professor. They didn't understand the significance of the question; they were simply waiting for her answer.
Professor McGonagall took a deep breath. "Vanishing Spells are N.E.W.T.-level curriculum. They involve theories of mass-to-energy conversion and cross-dimensional magic.
"Focus on the exercise at hand, Mr. Black. A perfect match-to-needle transformation is excellent. Five points to Slytherin for that."
She walked back to the podium and continued to instruct the other students.
For the next half of the class, Regulus could feel Professor McGonagall's gaze landing on him from time to time.
Regulus remained silent for the latter half. He knew the answer to his question, but he deduced that Professor McGonagall's attitude toward him was different from Slughorn's.
A matter of allegiances.
After Transfiguration class ended, Regulus was stopped just as he walked out of the classroom.
Narcissa Black stood at the corner of the corridor, her long blonde hair practically glowing in the sunlight.
Now in her seventh year, she already possessed a mature elegance. Her dark green school robes were pressed impeccably, and the silver Slytherin crest at her collar was polished to a shine.
"Regulus."
"Cousin Narcissa."
"A word, if you please."
She turned and walked down a secluded side corridor. Regulus followed. It was far from the main hallway, illuminated only by a few high windows.
Narcissa stopped and turned to face him.
"I've heard about what happened in the common room last night," she cut straight to the chase. "You made the Travers boy look like a fool in public."
"He brought it on himself."
"I know," Narcissa said, a hint of agreement in her tone. "Alger Travers is an idiot. His father's position in the Ministry was secured through marriage, not real ability. But that is not the problem."
She took a step forward, lowering her voice. "The problem is that you showed too much, Regulus.
"The first day, the first night, to do something to that degree in front of all of Slytherin. Do you know what that means?"
Regulus looked at her calmly. "It means I am not someone to be trifled with."
"It means you have entered the sights of certain people," Narcissa corrected. "Much earlier than you anticipated."
She looked around to ensure no one was there and continued, "At breakfast, Rabastan Lestrange, you know him, Rodolphus's younger brother...
"He asked a lot of questions about you. What kind of training you received at home, how strong your magical talent is, your views on certain matters."
"Which matters?"
"You know which ones." Narcissa stared at him. "That Lord is paying attention to talented young wizards, especially those from pure-blood families.
"Your brother's betrayal lowered the Black family's standing in That Lord's eyes. But now you have appeared: a younger, more talented Black who seems much more aligned with his expectations."