Chapter 13
Usually two Houses shared a lesson.
Their first Transfiguration class included not only Gryffindors but also Hufflepuffs.
So far neither Gryffindor nor Hufflepuff showed much inclination to mingle. It was only the first day; they were still barely acquainted with each other, let alone with another House. Though Simon did notice a familiar face—a certain blonde named Hannah Abbott, future Hannah Longbottom.
A glance at Neville revealed no instant chemistry. The boy wouldn't meet anyone's eyes, skittish as a frightened hamster.
Naturally the comical fiasco involving Simon hadn't gone unnoticed, so a ripple of quiet laughter spread through the room.
Professor McGonagall silenced it swiftly.
"Quiet."
She swept the class with a look that made even those already sitting straight instinctively straighten further. With a flick of her wand a piece of chalk rose and began writing introductory terms on the blackboard.
"Welcome to your first Transfiguration lesson," she said crisply. "A subject many of you consider impressive. Some find it spectacular. And certain particularly gifted individuals…" Her gaze lingered on Simon for a fraction of a second. "…have already decided it will be… entertaining."
"I never said that," Simon interjected instantly.
"Your attitude spoke for you," she cut back. "And in future do not interrupt your professor, Mr. Laplace. Speak only when given permission—this is a lesson, not a marketplace."
Simon gave an insolent smirk that did not escape Professor McGonagall's notice.
She had already realised her newest charge would not be easy. And Simon gave no indication he would compromise.
She chose to lean on professorial authority—and fairly so; Simon had displayed criminally little discipline.
But that was Simon—his instinct to push back overrode everything in situations like this. That was simply who he was. And for every time those instincts had saved him, they had caused just as many problems.
"I will disappoint you in advance," Professor McGonagall continued. "There is nothing entertaining about Transfiguration. There is nothing simple about it. And it does not forgive mistakes."
She waved her wand—the teacher's desk briefly became a pig. Large, pink, extremely displeased and grunting. A second later the pig was a desk again.
"This is an example of complete Transfiguration of an inanimate object into a living creature and back. Miss Bones—you have a question?"
The professor responded quite calmly to the raised hand.
"Professor," the red-haired girl hesitated. "Is there a fundamental difference between Charms and Transfiguration? I understand some spells are for changing objects while others do everything else, but… Are the categories arbitrary or is there a real distinction?"
Professor McGonagall adjusted her spectacles.
"Excellent question, Miss Bones—simply excellent." She swept her gaze across the room. "Does anyone have ideas?"
This time even Hermione lowered her head, though her eyes burned with titanic desire to stand out. Yet this particular question had stumped her too.
And then, out of nowhere, Professor McGonagall's gaze met Simon's clear one.
"Mr. Laplace—any ideas?"
"Hm…" Simon tilted his head, considering. "If we rely on the first-year textbook definitions and apply common sense…" He nodded to himself. "We can identify one key difference. Charms act upon an object. The object remains what it is but behaves… differently. For example: take a stone and make it warm, glowing, or flying—it's still a stone. Just with added properties. As though we gave it instructions: do this."
Simon scratched his eyebrow, still thinking about the nature of these objects.
"Transfiguration, however, works with the object itself. Not its behaviour but its very being. We don't tell the desk behave like a pig—we tell it you are a pig. Put most dryly: Charms alter an object's properties; Transfiguration alters its structure and essence."
A stunned silence fell over the classroom. First-years swivelled wide eyes between Simon and Professor McGonagall as though waiting for her to contradict him.
But the professor only smiled and clapped twice.
"Three points to Gryffindor," she said, and there was genuine relief in her voice. "A very perceptive—and above all correct—observation."
The chalk underlined the final words as though recording them.
"Remember this distinction," she said more sternly. "It is neither formal nor arbitrary—it is fundamental. That is precisely why Transfiguration is considered one of the most difficult disciplines in the school curriculum. A mistake in Charms usually ruins an object. A mistake in Transfiguration ruins a form—and sometimes a life."
Several students swallowed audibly.
McGonagall paced between the rows while the rest scribbled diligently. Most Muggle-borns—including Simon—were visibly struggling with quill and ink. It was clear the boy wanted to unleash a profane tirade but was restraining himself with visible effort.
What kind of idiot thought leaving quills and ink was a sensible idea?! Twenty-first century! Ballpoint pens are the foundation of civilisation!
"This year," Professor McGonagall continued, "you will not be transforming objects into animals. And certainly not living creatures into one another. Your maximum will be partial Transfiguration or transforming one inanimate object into another. Changing shape and material will be the theme of our early lessons."
The professor stopped at the blackboard and picked up the lesson's demonstration object.
"We begin with something simple—a metal needle. Your task is to turn the needle into a match."
For demonstration she flicked the needle in her hand; without a wand it became an ordinary wooden match with a brown head.
Another flick and a metal needle landed before each student.
"And remember: wand movement and clear intent are the foundation of foundations. Begin."
"That's it?" Simon muttered.
He saw the clear diagram on the board—the same one in the textbook. And this abstract instruction: clear intent.
That was all?!
But he had done exactly the same! Exactly the bloody same! And nothing had happened!
"Surprised, Mr. Laplace?" Professor McGonagall paused beside him. "It may seem the instruction is rather vague, but in Transfiguration verbal incantations are often reserved for advanced tasks. The breadth of Transfiguration's application is simply too vast—it is limited only by your imagination. And the first step is perhaps the most difficult. You must… feel it."
"Like riding a bicycle," Simon muttered. "You have to learn the feel of it, and forgetting is almost impossible."
"An interesting analogy," Professor McGonagall smiled, though her expression cooled immediately. "Mr. Weasley! This is not a philharmonic concert—there is no need to wave your wand like that! Strictly according to instructions!"
What exactly did clear intent mean?
"Come on!" Simon glared at the metal needle, pointing his wand. "Come on!"
Nothing.
"Now!"
Zero.
"Autobots—roll out!"
Optimus Prime did not respond.
"Motherfucker—transform!"
"Minus five points from Gryffindor for improper language, Mr. Laplace!"
"I don't care if it's a hundred!" he wanted to shout, but restrained himself.
Fine…
No approach he tried worked.
He needed to start from first principles. Treat it like a mathematics problem!
He leaned back in his chair, stopped waving the wand, and regarded the needle as his deadliest enemy.
All right…
Zero emotion.
Only data and facts.
He set the wand aside. Then carefully lifted the needle between two fingers and turned it in the light.
"Cold solid metal, perfectly smooth. Obvious and familiar object." He thought detachedly. "A match is different. Wood, porosity, fibres, loose structure, sulphur head and flammability. Different densities, different internal composition. Even on a tactile level—completely different material."
Task: replace one state of matter with another. Not superficially—down to the core.
Simon picked up the wand again and raised it precisely according to the diagram on the board.
"If Transfiguration is you are a pig, then there must be something like an identity assertion."
He tried to structure the intent as though writing code in an unfamiliar programming language.
He surprised himself with how quickly his brain slipped into the familiar cycle.
"If unclear—formalise. If it doesn't work—break it into variables."
Object: needle.
Composition: iron—Fe. With impurities, of course, but let's assume pure iron to simplify.
Shape: cylinder + pointed cone.
Density: high.
Surface: smooth, metallic sheen.
Target object: match.
Composition: wood—cellulose (C₆H₁₀O₅)n with lignin and water in micropores.
Shape: cylinder + blunt cone.
Head—ignition mixture, namely:
Oxidiser—something like potassium chlorate (KClO₃) or similar.
Fuel—antimony trisulphide (Sb₂S₃) or sulphur (S).
Binder—glue or starch.
Filler—glass powder?
Dye—iron oxide?
Simon clutched his head and groaned.
He realised he was overcomplicating it.
"…am I actually parameterising a match?" he muttered. "As though the universe is obliged to obey me if I list the molecules intelligently enough. And what's the point if I account for everything except the fact that this operation is fundamentally unscientific?!"
But with no alternative he had to settle for the only sane idea.
Simon raised his wand almost ceremonially.
"DON'T FAIL ME, MENDELEEV!" he bellowed at full volume and finally flicked the wand.
And…
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The needle didn't even bloody twitch!
Wait—no, there was a reaction…
"Mr. Laplace!" Professor McGonagall's voice rose in outrage. "Minus five points from Gryffindor! If this weren't your first lesson you would certainly be serving detention!"
Simon was saved by a lively explosion that erupted from Seamus Finnigan's needle.
Though…
Even that kind of reaction Simon would have welcomed. Anything except complete absence… of something.
He was definitely doing something wrong.
Sticky, nauseating emotions of failure began sprouting in his mind and seemed to settle in his chest.
Simon mechanically wiped his forehead and looked around.
Ron—face red as a baboon's—was waving his wand with his tongue sticking out. Harry's lips moved as though coaxing the needle to obey. Seamus was no longer working on the lesson—he was scrubbing soot from his face. Neville was diligently pretending to do something, though his desperate eyes showed he was mostly hoping for a miracle.
The Hufflepuffs were behaving even more simply. Some were meticulously copying McGonagall's movements—one boy accidentally jabbed his neighbour in the eye with his wand. The neighbour didn't like it—and Hufflepuff lost ten points for a near-fight.
No one sat analysing the process into chemical components.
No one built a model of what was happening.
No one tried to explain to themselves why.
And—the most disgusting thing, enough to make his bones shiver—some of them were succeeding.
Crookedly, comically, partially—but there was some result!
Simon watched them and felt like… a complete failure.
Was he smarter than them? Absolutely yes! Simon had never been shy about acknowledging his superiority over those around him.
Did he approach the problem more seriously? Yes—and again yes!
Was he performing worse? Bitterly yes!
More precisely—performing nothing at all.
"…something's wrong…" he muttered. "Clear intent—what does that mean?"
In engineering it meant precisely defining the goal and inputs.
In programming—specifying the desired output.
In mathematics—fixing the conditions.
He had done all of that. Even with margin, with insurance.
And in the end…
Zero.
His entire life he had operated on one principle: rationality and logic above all. He had looked up to people who placed mind and common sense first.
He had always thought like an engineer and a scientist; he simply didn't know how to think any other way.
Look at Neville—he'd managed to turn the needle wooden for two seconds. Had he approached the task with anything like Simon's thoroughness?
No.
Neville had simply hoped for the best—and the most disgusting part was that it had worked to some degree.
And Simon?
He was apparently a complete dud.
He felt the seeds of genuine irrational hysteria and uncontrollable humiliation beginning to sprout in his mind.
He wanted to stand up and scream at everyone that they were the wrong failures—not him. That the problem was with them—not him! That this entire fucking magical world was shit and he was pure!
But the last remnants of sanity prevailed. If he did that he would only make himself look like an even bigger loser. And his quota for that state had already exceeded all mental limits.
The best result by the end of the lesson belonged to Hermione—she had managed to turn part of her needle into a stable match.
Simon had to content himself with the overwhelming feeling of humiliation when the girl threw him a look full of superiority.
And the hardest part was not unleashing a torrent of bile on Hermione. Not because he didn't want to reduce the girl to tears—he simply feared even greater humiliation. If he did that he would only prove himself an even bigger failure.
*****
Simon came back to himself somewhere in the middle of lunch.
As always, failure had found him.
And as always, only he could drag himself out of this shit.
Failure had been Simon's most faithful and predictable companion his entire life. And if he hadn't learned to grit his teeth and bulldoze forward he would have overdosed or killed himself long ago after yet another beating from his father.
"…Ottery St Catchpole—a village nearby," Ron shrugged. "Don't know much beyond that."
"What?" Seamus frowned. "You don't know where you live?"
"Well, we call our house the Burrow," Ron said without lifting his head from a chicken drumstick. "And you can get anywhere through the Floo Network. Why do I need to know the rest?"
"It's Devon County, south-west England," Simon answered automatically.
"Oh—look who's awake," Seamus grinned. "You've been sitting like a zombie for an hour and not answering anyone."
Simon instantly changed the subject. He refused to discuss his own weakness.
"What were you talking about?"
"Talking about where we're from," Harry shrugged. "I'm from Surrey, Seamus is from Ireland, and Ron… from Devon, apparently. You're from Liverpool—everyone already knows."
"And you, Dean?" Simon turned to the black boy.
"From Wales," Dean Thomas replied.
"Englishman," Ron nodded.
"I'm Welsh!" Dean responded with surprising emotion.
"What's the difference?"
Dean visibly reddened with indignation.
"Isn't Wales part of England?" Ron asked Simon with a blank expression, treating him like a walking encyclopaedia.
"Wales is part of the United Kingdom—not England," Simon replied calmly.
"Is there a difference?" Ron asked with empty eyes.
"Sort of yes, sort of no," Simon waved vaguely. "Never mind. Just don't call Welsh people English—they get touchy about it."
"What's the big deal?" Seamus shrugged. "A black guy's a black guy in England too."
It was clear Dean was about to explode with fury.
"That's racism!"
"Dean—what's wrong?" Simon asked with genuine-looking surprise. "Seamus is Irish. Racism is practically part of their national culture. Don't be a nationalist!"
"ME—A NATIONALIST?!"