A/N: New tiers added for specific stories. Do check it out. Show you support for this story. Creator Name: Blaze98
Students began filing out of the Transfiguration classroom in small clusters, the earlier tension between houses slowly dissolving into post-class chatter. Gryffindors exited first, some still glancing back toward the Slytherin benches with expressions ranging from irritation to reluctant respect. Slytherins followed—calmer, quieter, carrying themselves with a confidence that hadn't been there a week ago.
I was just about to shoulder my bag and leave when—
"Mr. Salvius–P."
Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the noise with practiced precision.
I stopped and turned.
She was standing beside her desk, spectacles lowered slightly, studying me with that sharp, evaluative gaze that missed very little.
"Yes, Professor?"
She gestured subtly toward the now-empty classroom. "Walk with me for a moment."
I did.
Once the last student had left and the door closed behind us, she spoke again.
"Tell me," she said calmly, "did you and your Housemates practice over the weekend?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Oh yes," I replied honestly. "We spent about half the time exploring the castle—getting familiar with it—and the other half practicing basic spells."
Her eyebrow rose just slightly.
"I believe," I continued, choosing my words carefully, "that today's class is the best proof that peer learning works. When students learn together, they encourage one another. It sparks a competitive spirit, but a healthy one. There's less hesitation to ask for help, less fear of looking foolish."
I paused, then added more quietly, "That's why I was… disheartened when Professor Snape informed me the study club proposal had been rejected."
McGonagall sighed—softly, not in annoyance, but in thought.
"Oh, my dear boy," she said, "don't take it to heart."
I looked up, surprised.
"It isn't a complete rejection," she clarified. "You were asked to prepare a proper structure—plans, rules, safeguards. A full report."
She adjusted her spectacles.
"If you need help with that," she added, "you may come to me. I will assist where I can."
That alone would have stunned most students.
Then she shook her head faintly.
"I must admit," she said, "I did not expect Albus to be the first to oppose the idea… nor Severus to agree with him so readily."
There was no bitterness in her tone—just genuine surprise.
"Still," she continued firmly, "do not let this distract you from your studies. Ambition is admirable, Mr. Salvius–P, but Hogwarts is first and foremost a school."
"Of course, Professor," I said immediately. "I won't neglect my work."
That seemed to satisfy her.
"Good," she said. "Now go on. Lunch waits for no one."
I inclined my head respectfully.
"Yes, Professor."
The lunch break came as a welcome pause before History of Magic.
By the time I reached the Great Hall, the Slytherin table was already filling up. Plates were being refilled, conversations overlapping with a low, satisfied hum—the kind that only followed a successful morning.
I sat down and let my gaze sweep across them.
"Well done," I said simply.
That was all it took.
Shoulders straightened. A few quiet smiles appeared. Even Montague looked faintly pleased with himself, though he tried not to show it.
They'd earned it.
Lunch passed quickly. As the last plates were cleared and students began gathering their bags for the next class, I spoke again—this time more casually.
"Listen up," I said, lowering my voice just enough to keep it within our end of the table. "A word of advice from the seniors."
They leaned in instinctively.
"History of Magic is repetitive," I continued. "Professor Binns doesn't award House points. Ever. And once he starts talking…"
I paused deliberately.
"…staying awake becomes an act of willpower."
A few exchanged confused looks.
"So don't," I finished calmly. "Get some sleep during the lesson. It won't affect the House in any way."
For a moment, they just stared at me.
Nyx blinked.
Selene frowned slightly.
Adrian looked genuinely conflicted.
This was coming from the same person who drilled discipline, presentation, and House image into them daily.
"…Are you serious?" someone whispered.
I didn't answer.
They found out soon enough.
History of Magic lived up to its reputation with painful efficiency.
Professor Binns droned on, voice flat and endless, drifting through dates and names without pause or inflection. Within minutes, eyelids drooped. Quills slowed. Heads began to tilt—subtly at first, then without shame.
By the time the bell rang, most of us felt strangely refreshed.
After that—straight to the library.
No detours. No wandering.
Snape's review essay and McGonagall's transfiguration assignment loomed ahead, both due next week. Waiting until the last moment would be idiocy, and everyone there knew it—even if they didn't like admitting it.
We claimed a long table near the back, away from the main aisles. Books were stacked, parchment unrolled, ink bottles opened.
I took out the notes Blake and I had compiled the day before and started writing.
The words flowed easily.
Potion theory first—clear structure, precise phrasing. Then transfiguration—intent, visualization, limitations. Clean. Efficient.
Adrian leaned closer.
Then Montague did the same.
Both of them were clearly trying to copy.
I didn't look up—just shifted my gaze sideways.
That was enough.
They straightened immediately.
Instead, I slid a short list of reference books across the table.
"Use those," I said quietly. "Divide them."
They hesitated, then nodded. Books were split. Pages were marked. Notes began circulating between them.
Two hours passed.
I finished both essays.
I leaned back slightly and looked around.
The contrast was… stark.
Everyone else had taken multiple breaks—stretching, whispering, staring blankly into space. Their parchments weren't empty, but they weren't impressive either. Most had managed four or five disjointed lines at best.
Their notes, however, were solid.
Good points.
Correct information.
Decent understanding.
The problem wasn't knowledge.
It was structure.
I exhaled quietly and stood.
"Alright," I said, keeping my voice low. "Pause."
They looked up.
"You're not bad at this," I continued. "Your notes are good. What you're missing isn't magic—it's method."
I took a spare parchment and sketched three simple headings.
"Introduction," I said, tapping the first.
"Body," tapping the second.
"Conclusion," tapping the third.
"A professor doesn't want a pile of facts," I explained. "They want an argument. A flow. You tell them what you're going to say, you say it properly, then you tell them what you said."
A few brows furrowed.
"That's how I write essays," I added calmly. "And it works."
Understanding dawned—slowly, but surely.
They leaned back over their parchments, rewriting, reorganizing, refining.
And for the first time that day, the library filled not with whispers or wandering attention—but with focused scratching of quills.
By the time Madam Pince's sharp gaze passed over us for the third time, it was clear we were done for the day.
Most of them had managed to finish at least one essay. A few were close to finishing the second, parchments now filled with something resembling proper structure rather than scattered thoughts. It wasn't perfect—but it was a start.
"That's enough for today," I said, rolling up my parchment. "You'll finish the rest tomorrow. Don't burn yourselves out on the first week."
There were no complaints this time—only quiet relief.
We packed up and left the library together, the late afternoon light slanting through the high windows as we made our way back down through familiar corridors.
The dueling hall was already active when we arrived.
The portrait parted at the password, and the hall opened before us once more—torches lit, stone polished, magic humming faintly in the air. Inside, a small group of seventh years were already present, wands out, movements confident and economical.
Headboy Fawley was with them.
He looked up as we entered, and a few of the seniors followed his gaze. Their reactions were immediate—raised brows, low whistles, impressed looks they didn't bother hiding.
"So this is it," one of them said, scanning the hall. "Didn't think anyone would ever reopen this place."
Another chuckled. "And a first-year got access before the rest of us. That's something."
Fawley glanced at me, expression thoughtful rather than disapproving. "You weren't exaggerating."
I inclined my head slightly. "Practice speaks for itself."
They didn't press further.
We split naturally—first years taking one side, seventh years the other. No tension. No posturing. Just shared space and unspoken standards.
For the next hour, the hall filled with controlled spellwork.
Disarming charms snapped cleanly through the air. Shields flared and vanished. Footwork echoed against stone as drills repeated again and again. Seniors offered the occasional correction; first years listened without pride getting in the way.
It wasn't formal training.
But it was real.
When the time came, I called it.
"That's enough," I said. "Dinner."
No one argued.
We secured our things and filed out, the dueling hall settling back into its quiet watchfulness as the portrait sealed behind us once more.
Another day completed.
And for Slytherin—
Another step forward.