We left the Potions dungeon as a group and headed straight for the Transfiguration classroom.
Mondays paired us with Gryffindor, which meant two things: noise, and unpredictability. Sure enough, by the time we reached the corridor outside the classroom, the space was already starting to fill with red and gold.
That's when I spotted them.
Fred and George Weasley were loitering just outside the room, pretending not to loiter—leaning far too casually against the wall, whispering animatedly to each other.
I peeled off from the group and walked over.
They noticed me instantly.
"Morning, Your Majesty," Fred said with a grin.
"Here to admire Gryffindor brilliance?" George added.
I ignored that and lowered my voice slightly.
"Quick tip," I said, pressing a small bag into Fred's hand. "Professor McGonagall's cat loves treats."
They both froze.
Slowly, George looked down at the bag. Then back at me.
"…You're joking," he whispered.
"I never joke about survival," I replied calmly.
Fred's grin widened into something dangerous. "You absolute menace."
"Use it wisely," I said, already turning away. "Or not at all. Your funeral."
They stared at my back for a second, then at each other.
"This year's going to be fun," George murmured.
I rejoined the others and stepped into the Transfiguration classroom just as Professor McGonagall's stern voice cut through the growing chatter, calling everyone to their seats.
Gryffindors filtered in behind us, still buzzing.
The cat was already seated on Professor McGonagall's desk when we entered.
Perfectly upright. Tail wrapped neatly around its paws. Green eyes sharp and assessing, as if it were already judging who would embarrass themselves first.
I took a seat toward the back with the other Slytherins.
The division was immediate—and instinctive.
Slytherin to the left.
Gryffindor to the right.
No one had been told to separate, yet the classroom split cleanly down the middle, an invisible line drawn through stone and air alike. Even the first years, who hadn't yet learned to hate properly, seemed unwilling to cross it. Desks scraped. Bags were shifted. Glances were exchanged, wary and competitive.
Rivalry, raw and unpolished.
Fred and George entered late.
I expected them to make a show of approaching the desk—expected chaos, really.
Instead, they slid into the seats directly behind me.
I felt it before I saw it.
Two identical presences leaning in just enough to be noticeable.
I turned my head slightly.
They were wearing the most offensively innocent smiles I had ever seen.
Wide-eyed. Harmless. Almost angelic.
Both Gryffindors and Slytherins stared at them like they'd lost their minds.
I didn't dignify them with a reaction.
Apparently, neither did the cat.
But someone did move forward.
Lee Jordan.
He strode up with the easy confidence of someone who had never once considered consequences in his life. He knelt slightly, opened the bag, and held out a treat with a grin.
"For you, kitty," he said cheerfully.
The cat's ears flattened.
Slowly—deliberately—it lifted its head and fixed Lee with a glare so sharp it could have stripped paint.
The treat was ignored.
Lee froze.
The cat turned its head away with unmistakable disdain.
A ripple of suppressed laughter ran through the Slytherin side. Even a few Gryffindors coughed to hide their amusement.
Lee straightened, cleared his throat, and retreated back to his seat—dignity in tatters.
The room settled.
Silence crept in.
Then the cat moved.
It leapt lightly from the desk, landing in the open space at the front of the classroom. Mid-air, its body twisted—not awkwardly, not hurriedly, but with absolute control.
Fur flowed into fabric.
Bone reshaped with precision.
Magic folded inward, seamless and exact.
Professor Minerva McGonagall stood where the cat had been.
Robes immaculate.
Posture rigid.
Expression sharp enough to cut glass.
An Animagus transformation.
Not flashy.
Not exaggerated.
Perfect.
The laughter died instantly.
Fred and George froze.
Lee Jordan went pale.
McGonagall adjusted her sleeves once and surveyed the class.
"Good morning," she said crisply.
She adjusted her sleeves once and surveyed the room over the rim of her glasses.
Fred and George let out identical sighs of relief and leaned toward each other.
"Thankfully," Fred whispered, solemn as a monk, "we felt something off."
"And," George added gravely, "didn't give in to the devil's temptations."
They both patted my back in quick succession, voices dropping even lower.
"You have a lot to—""—learn before trying to prank us."
Their smiles were wide. Triumphant.
I didn't even turn around.
"Yep," I said mildly. "But you just lost your only opportunity to try feeding cat food to a professor."
Adrian, seated beside me, failed to suppress a short chuckle.
That did it.
The twins' grins froze mid-victory.
Slowly—very slowly—they turned to look at me. Then at the front of the classroom. Then back at each other.
Realization dawned.
Horror followed.
Without another word, they gathered their things and quietly relocated to the Gryffindor side, faces schooled into expressions of exaggerated innocence.
At the front of the room, Lee Jordan was still standing.
"Professor, I— I didn't— I wasn't—" he began, floundering.
Professor McGonagall raised a single hand.
"That will be quite enough, Mr. Jordan," she said coolly. "If you are intent on losing house points before you've earned any, I suggest you reconsider your life choices."
Lee swallowed.
"Detention. This evening."
"Yes, Professor," he mumbled, collapsing back into his seat.
McGonagall turned back to the class, gaze sharp, composed, utterly unimpressed.
"Now," she said crisply, "if we are quite finished attempting to feed my Animagus form, we may begin Transfiguration."
The room was silent.
Professor McGonagall surveyed the classroom in silence.
It wasn't an idle pause.
It was the kind that straightened spines, quieted whispers, and reminded everyone—especially first years—that Transfiguration was not a subject one approached casually.
"Transfiguration," she began crisply, "is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts."
Her gaze moved deliberately across the room, lingering for a fraction longer on the Gryffindor side before returning to center.
"It is not waving a wand and hoping for the best. It is not enthusiasm. And it is most certainly not imagination without discipline."
She turned and walked to the blackboard, robes whispering softly against the stone floor.
"Today," she continued, "we will begin with a fundamental exercise. Simple in appearance. Difficult in execution."
With a tap of her wand, neat, precise letters appeared on the board:
Matchstick → Needle
A faint ripple went through the room.
"A matchstick," McGonagall said, lifting one between her fingers, "is wood. Organic. Brittle. A needle is metal. Inorganic. Conductive. Precise."
She placed the matchstick on the desk in front of her.
"This is not a charm," she said firmly. "You are not adding something to it. You are not disguising it. You are not enchanting it to behave like a needle."
Her eyes sharpened.
"You are transforming it into a needle."
She turned back to face the class.
"That requires three things," she said, raising a finger for each point.
"Clear intent."
"Absolute focus."
"And unwavering visualization."
She tapped her temple lightly.
"If you cannot see the needle in your mind—its length, weight, balance, metallic sheen—your magic will have nothing to anchor itself to."
A pause.
"Most failed attempts," she added coolly, "result in objects that are half-transformed. Flexible needles. Wooden points. Or worse—objects that look correct but behave incorrectly."
Her gaze flicked toward the back of the room.
"Those will earn you no marks."
She returned to the desk and picked up her wand.
"Watch carefully."
The classroom was utterly silent.
McGonagall held her wand steady, tip hovering just above the matchstick. Her posture was perfect—no wasted movement, no flourish.
"Transfiguration," she said calmly, "responds to certainty."
She made a single, precise movement—short, controlled—and tapped the needle with her wand.
There was no flash. No explosion. No dramatic sound.
The matchstick shimmered once.
And where it had been now lay a slender, polished steel needle—straight, sharp, and unmistakably metal.
She picked it up and held it to the light.
"It is cold," she said. "It conducts. It will pierce fabric and flesh equally well."
She set it down carefully.
"This," she said, turning back to the class, "is a successful transfiguration."
She glanced across the room again.
"You will note that I did not rush," she added. "Nor did I force power into the spell. Excess magic destabilizes transformation."
Her lips thinned slightly.
"A common mistake among enthusiastic students."
She gestured with her wand, and identical matchsticks appeared neatly on each desk.
"You will now attempt the same," she said. "One matchstick. One needle."
She paused, letting the weight of the task settle.
"If at any point your transformation becomes unstable," she added sharply, "you will stop immediately and raise your hand. I will not tolerate injuries caused by impatience."
Her gaze hardened.
"This is not a competition between houses."
A beat.
"It is a test of control."
She stepped back from the desk.
"Begin."
Gryffindors were the first to move.
Unfortunately, enthusiasm outpaced control.
Wands slashed through the air in wide arcs. Incantations were muttered too quickly, too loudly, some half-forgotten and others outright wrong. Matchsticks rattled, smoked, bent at odd angles—or stubbornly remained wooden despite the effort poured into them.
Slytherins watched.
Not smugly.
Not mockingly.
Amused.
I didn't intervene. I observed.
Only three on the Gryffindor side showed any real progress. The twins—Fred and George—had managed partial transfigurations, the wood thinning unevenly into something vaguely metallic near the tip. Alicia Spinnet fared slightly better, producing a stiffened sliver that gleamed like metal but warped under its own weight.
McGonagall noticed them—but said nothing yet.
Then, quietly, the Slytherin side began to move.
Nyx Calder, seated at the front bench, was the first.
She didn't rush. She didn't glance around to see who was watching. She lifted her wand, tapped the matchstick lightly—almost delicately—and executed a graceful, economical motion.
No wasted movement.
The matchstick shimmered once.
When the light faded, a needle lay where it had been.
Not exquisite.
Not flawless.
But unmistakably a needle.
Straight. Metallic. Functional.
The room shifted.
McGonagall's head snapped toward the Slytherin benches. She stepped forward immediately, picking up the needle and inspecting it closely.
"A very good attempt at Transfiguration," she said, genuine surprise slipping through her professional tone. "The structure is correct. A little refinement in shape will come with practice."
She straightened.
"Five points to Sly—"
Her voice faltered.
Because beside Nyx, Lyanna Wynthrope repeated the same controlled gesture.
Another needle formed.
Behind them, almost in sequence, Montague and Terrance followed. Montague's needle was cleaner than the others—slightly more refined, the metallic sheen truer.
Then Selene.
Then Celia.
Each transformation successful.
Each deliberate.
Each quiet.
The Gryffindor side had gone utterly still.
McGonagall slowly turned her head, eyes moving down the Slytherin rows.
Only one desk stood out.
Cassius Warrington sat frozen, wand hovering uselessly above an unchanged matchstick, his expression a mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to panic.
And then—
I lifted my wand.
No incantation rushed.
No flourish.
Just intent.
The matchstick dissolved into light and reformed as an exquisite steel needle—perfectly balanced, smooth, a subtle serpent motif etched along its length. Decorative, yes—but structurally flawless.
McGonagall stopped walking.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
Then she exhaled slowly.
She turned back toward the class.
"Twenty-five points to Slytherin," she said firmly.
The Gryffindor benches collectively sank lower.
Her gaze returned to me.
"Mr. Salvius–P," she said, composed once more, "would you mind assisting me? Some students clearly require… corrective guidance."
"Of course, Professor," I replied calmly, rising from my seat.
The reaction was immediate.
A few Gryffindors stiffened. Some avoided my gaze entirely.
Most Gryffindors were averse to learning from a Slytherin.
I made no move toward Warrington.
Nor toward those who were clearly unwilling.
Instead, I stopped beside the twins' desk.
Fred glanced up warily. George mirrored him.
"Your intent is scattered," I said quietly, so only they could hear. "You're imagining the result after the spell—not during it."
Alicia Spinnet leaned in instinctively, listening.
"Slow down," I continued. "See the needle first. Weight. Shape. Temperature. Then let magic follow the image."
Fred swallowed. George nodded once.
They tried again.
This time, the transformation held longer.
Not perfect—but progress.
McGonagall watched from the front while instructing other students, arms folded, saying nothing.
__________________________
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