“Hi, Hermione.
Good evening.” Hermione Granger raised her head from behind the heavy volume of *A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration*.
Flickering firelight reflected off her face, which was painted with irritation.
The deafening cheers in the common room had only just subsided, allowing her to recapture the quiet peace of reading, only for it to be shattered once more.
And by the very source of the noise, no less.
“Is there something you need, Mr.
Stark?” She closed the book, rested it on her lap, and spoke in a strictly business tone.
Rayleigh’s smile stiffened.
*Uh-oh, even the form of address changed.
She’s definitely furious.* “Um…
Hermione, I just wanted to…
ask you a few questions about Transfiguration,” he stammered out, steeling himself.
“Ask me?” Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking for all the world like a mini Professor McGonagall.
“I was under the impression you weren’t interested in studying.” “How could that be!” Rayleigh claimed righteously.
“Oh?
Really?” Hermione’s firepower flared up instantly.
“Then tell me, after reading my History of Magic essay on medieval Goblin rebellions, what were your unique insights?” Rayleigh’s heart skipped a beat.
“I…
I thought it was brilliantly written.
Original points, solid evidence…” “Is that so?” Hermione sneered.
“Brilliant enough that you didn’t even bother changing a single punctuation mark before handing it straight to Professor Binns?” Her interrogation was sharp and direct.
“Do you have any idea that if our History of Magic teacher weren’t a ghost who couldn’t care less who his students are, the two of us would have been caught for cheating?
Cheating!
That goes on your permanent record!” To a top student who valued academic achievements above life itself, this was an absolute humiliation.
Rayleigh was left completely speechless.
“And another thing!” Hermione gave him zero breathing room.
“Don’t think I forgot yesterday!
My Potions homework!
If I hadn’t snatched it back in time, were you planning to copy that word for word too, so Professor Snape could twist off both our heads and use them as cauldrons?!” Rayleigh lost all fight and threw up his hands in surrender.
“I was wrong, I was wrong, boss Hermione, I deserve death ten times over,” he muttered with his head hanging, looking thoroughly repentant.
“I promise, I will never, ever copy your homework again.” He paused, looked up, and spoke with absolute earnestness.
“I swear, if I copy another word from you, may I turn into a slug in next week’s Transfiguration exam.” Seeing him play the fool like this, Hermione’s anger drained away by half, though she kept a strict face.
“You said it yourself.” “I said it!” Rayleigh patted his chest.
(*Borrowing inspiration isn’t copying as long as I don’t copy word for word!*) “So, seeing how sincere I am, could the great Miss Granger spare a moment to guide this lost lamb?” Hermione stared at him for a long moment before finally letting out a soft huff from her nose, granting her implicit permission.
She reopened the thick volume and cleared her throat.
“Transfiguration relies on three core elements: a firm will, a clear target concept, and precise magic output.
We’ll start from the most basic Switching Spell.
The key to casting it lies in…” Listening to her, Rayleigh felt a massive headache coming on.
He had heard these theories in class, and they were spelled out clearly in the textbook.
He just couldn’t execute them.
His magic, forged in a world corrupted by Baal, was accustomed to the most direct, brutal destruction.
It simply couldn’t handle such delicate precision.
Hermione talked until her throat was dry, only to find Rayleigh still staring blankly.
She paused.
“Are you even listening?” “Listening, listening!” Rayleigh nodded repeatedly.
“Then let me ask you,” Hermione tapped a diagram in the book with her finger, “why is turning a beetle into a button more complex than turning a match into a needle?” Rayleigh: “…” *That’s way beyond the syllabus!* Seeing Rayleigh’s pained, constipated expression, Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a deep wave of helplessness.
“Goodness, you don’t even know that?
How on earth did you pass your midterm exams?” she asked in disbelief.
“And how did you manage to turn a match into a needle in Professor McGonagall’s class?” “Well…
I just did it,” Rayleigh answered vaguely.
“What do you mean, ‘just did it’?” Hermione was going mad.
“It’s like…” Rayleigh scratched his head, struggling to articulate.
“I just told the match, ‘You can’t be a match anymore, you have to become a needle.’ And then…
it changed.” Hermione…
was…
dumbfounded…
Her brain short-circuited for five full seconds.
*What on earth?
Tell the match?
What kind of logic is that?
Since when did Transfiguration become an art of verbal persuasion?* “You…
say that again?” Rayleigh had no choice but to repeat it.
Hermione fell into utter confusion.
It sounded preposterous, completely contradicting every Transfiguration theory she had ever learned.
Transfiguration was supposed to be a wizard using sheer willpower to forcibly bend matter’s physical structure into what they envisioned.
Yet Rayleigh’s explanation sounded more like…
granting an object a degree of agency and guiding it to transform itself?
*Can…
can you bloody well do that?!* Hermione felt her entire worldview rocking on its foundations.
She rapidly flipped through *A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration*, her knuckles turning white with effort, desperately searching the dense, obscure theories for a harbor where Rayleigh’s bizarre heresy might fit.
“Forced morphological transformation…
modern magical applications of animism…
or is it…
an unconscious projection of pure intent bypassing standard incantation procedures?” She mumbled under her breath, completely lost in her academic universe.
Rayleigh took one look at her obsessed state and wisely chose to shut up.
He didn’t want to overstimulate the top student any further.
He quietly stood up and shuffled away step by step.
Only after returning to his dormitory and shutting the door did Rayleigh let out a breath of relief.
But immediately after, a burst of excitement welled up within him.
Though he had hit a wall with Hermione, today’s encounter indirectly proved something vital.
Using the Horadric Cube to combine spells—this path worked!
His only problem now was that he knew too few spells.
Besides, combining spells in the Horadric Cube was full of randomness—it was basically opening mystery boxes.
Last night, he had taken every spell he knew—offensive or utility—scrambled them together, and shoved them into that mysterious cube.
After dozens of combinations, he had only gotten one presentable result: Chrysanthemum Shredder.
The rest were useless junk, like making a quill dance tap-dancing routines.
He had to learn more spells!
The more, the better!
Rayleigh clenched his fists.
*Well, damn it.
Looks like I’m committing to Charms until the bitter end.* *Professor McGonagall, I have failed you!* …
The next morning at the Great Hall breakfast table.
Harry Potter leaned in secretively between Rayleigh and Ron.
“Hey, got some news,” he whispered, excitement leaking from his expression.
“Wood…
he put me on the Gryffindor Quidditch team as Seeker.” “Whoa!” Ron’s mouth formed a wide ‘O’, full of envy.
“Seeker!
Harry!
That’s the most important position!
That’s brilliant!
I wish I could join the team!” Rayleigh, on the other hand, felt little interest.
Flying around in the sky on a broom held no appeal for him.
Wouldn’t that time be better spent researching spells and earning Gold Galleons?
Just then, Hermione sat opposite them with her tray.
She had clearly overheard, her face wearing unreserved disdain.
“Quidditch?
Have you forgotten something far more important?” “What could be more important than Harry becoming the youngest Seeker in our House for a century?” Ron retorted indignantly.
“There is!” Hermione said firmly.
“The thing guarded by that three-headed dog!
Hagrid already gave us clues.
We should be investigating that instead of wasting time on games that break school rules!” With that, she gave them an “as you wish” glare before turning her attention to her breakfast.
Munching on bacon, Rayleigh calculated which Charms books he should borrow from the library today.
He failed to notice that at the Staff Table not far away, two completely different gazes rested upon him.
One belonged to Albus Dumbledore.
The white-bearded Headmaster was peering through his half-moon spectacles, observing Rayleigh with keen interest.
Yesterday, Snape had stormed into his office fuming with rage, delivering an exaggerated account of Rayleigh’s misdeeds.
After hearing it all, Dumbledore had merely smiled merrily and offered Snape a Lemon Drop.
The other gaze was far colder.
It originated from Professor Quirrell, who wore a giant purple turban and reeked of garlic.
Or more precisely, from the lingering soul parasitic on the back of his head.
Voldemort.
On Rayleigh, he picked up a scent both familiar and unsettling.
It was the smell of Dark Magic.
And the smell of death.