I think that this might be close to the longest Chapter I’ve written for this fic.
Not 100% sure.
Just so yall know that there’s still a decent amount left.
Still in the Harry Potter world.
Probably going to be in the Harry Potter universe for a good 80 to 100 chapters at the rate I’m going.
Though things may speed up depending on how I decide to approach the post Hogwarts timeframe…
I’ve got plans.
Anyway, enjoy the chapter.
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“Well, Birdperson.
Go do things that normal phoenixes do.
I’ve got a busy night ahead of me, and you are heavy.” Leon said as he stepped back into the halls of the castle.
He only had about an hour before curfew and decided to just head back to the dorms.
Once everyone was expected to be asleep, he could finish off his essays quite rapidly.
In his mind, three inches of parchment as an essay was literally about as hard as writing three paragraphs.
Without constant interruptions, he would be able to finish them all within a half hour.
The common room was abuzz with the students talking about the phoenix fight.
It had been a very memorable first day of class, that much was certain.
Leon slipped through the common room and into the dorm, settling into his room and finally getting to work writing his essays for real.
One thing that was very annoying about Hogwarts, and the wizarding world in Britain as a whole, was that all official paperwork needed to be done using ink and quill.
The professors didn’t care about the students’ taking notes with a pencil or ballpoint pen.
But for tests, essays, and anything to do with the Ministry, everything had to be done using a quill and ink.
And using a quill was a skill.
One that Leon had gotten from The Basics way back when he first became what he now was.
But basic ability to use a quill did not mean that he was good at it.
His handwriting was jagged and angular and worse still; he constantly made ink blotches all over his parchment.
Leon looked at the quill in his hand with disdain.
Then he pulled up his system window for the first time in ages.
Race: Oblivion Lord
Named Realm/s: Coldharbour
Unnamed Realm/s: None
Avatar/s: [Coldharbour 1/1(Human/changeable)] [HP-Earthly Realm 1/1(human/wizard)]
Mind: 1
Body: 1
Spirit: 1
OP: 8,329
[Shop]
Very little had changed.
Over the years he had purchased a few items from the Shop.
He could buy anything from it as long as it originated in the Elder Scrolls universe.
Knowledge, skills, and unnamed realms.
The knowledge and skills associated with the various schools of magic, were very expensive.
And each level of mastery higher was an exponential growth in expenses.
But mundane skills were significantly more reasonable.
Leon clicked open the shop and scrolled through it until he found Calligraphy.
It wasn’t too expensive, and Leon would have never thought to waste his points on the skill if it weren’t for how annoying a quill and inkpot were.
OP was not easy to come by after all.
Converting animals, even the phoenix hadn’t given him more than a handful of the precious resource.
Converting humans gave the highest lump sum.
But he really needed those cults to get built and start pumping out points for him.
As it stood, he reluctantly spent 5,000 points on purchasing Calligraphy to the Grand Mastery level.
The moment he confirmed his purchase, Leon experienced a download of a decent amount of information, along with a boat load muscle-memory.
Leon looked at the quill in his hand.
It no longer felt like an awkward archaic tool that should be thrown in the trash.
It felt like an old familiar friend.
It felt right in his hand.
His grip adjusted as he turned his attention back to the task at hand and began writing.
The difference was extraordinary.
His handwriting was still a little angular and jagged.
But it looked like a stylistic choice and not the result of a child bumbling along with no skill.
In fact, Leon’s Calligraphy had given the style of his writing an imposing air to it.
Like Leon was commanding the reader to understand what he was saying through the ink.
Th Knockback Jinx essay ended up looking less like an 11-year-olds homework, and a lot more like an imperial edict that happened to be an essay.
Leon held up the essay that he had just finished writing and felt a bit of imposter syndrome sneaking in.
He had never made something that looked so perfect in any life.
And this was just a quick page of uses for the Knockback Jinx.
With a few references to books with accounts of neat uses of the Jinx.
Leon’s sudden skill and artistry with a quill felt entirely unearned for a moment before he cast that feeling aside.
He had earned those points, which meant that he had earned what he purchased with them.
Nodding his affirmation to himself, Leon quickly wrote out his history of magic essay, then his charms essay.
Each of them a beautiful masterpiece of domineering calligraphy that looked like it came from scribes taking down the words of the God Emperor.
It was kind of funny given the childish nature of the contents.
These weren’t high end academic papers addressing serious issues.
These were essays meant to engage the students in the material that they were covering.
And first years were covering the most basic of the basics.
Leon was fairly certain that he was going to have to prove to his professors that this was indeed his handwriting.
There was no way that they were going to simply believe an 11-year-old wrote like this.
They’d assume that he was using an enchanted quill or something.
He’d deal with it when the time came.
Leon carefully stored the essays on a desk in Coldharbour where they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Then turned his attention to other matters.
Namely, taking a shower and going to bed.
The day had been a rollercoaster.
One that was mostly of his own making.
He rarely slept for real, instead, going to Coldharbour to practice magicka or HP magic.
But he was feeling in the mood for a real sleep tonight.
The next morning Leon made sure to bounce back and forth between his Avatars a few times just to clear out any weird issues he might have from sleeping as his earthly avatar.
Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall was today’s first class.
But he still had hours before that was a concern.
He’d definitely slept in by his own standards, but breakfast was served from 7 to 9 am.
His 7:30 wake up time fit perfectly.
Freshening up and switching out of his sleepwear, Leon headed up to breakfast.
Several of the first-year girls accompanied him up to the Great Hall, hoping to see Birdperson.
But he was out flying around the Hogwarts grounds at the moment.
As much as Leon liked having a phoenix around, it was uncomfortable as hell to have it constantly on his shoulder.
And it would be annoying if it were hovering nearby every moment of the day, so he just had it patrol the castle grounds until he figured out a better solution.
There were already a lot of people in the Great Hall.
Leon found an empty spot and tucked in.
Breakfast was enjoyable, the company was polite and friendly, and Leon was excited about transfiguration class.
When the bells tolled for 8 o’clock owls poured in through windows and the open great door, delivering mail and newspapers.
Leon spotted several beleaguered-looking owls Hedwig included, over at the Gryffindor table beside a stack of packages that Hermione was busy grabbing.
She looked up and saw Leon looking and glared at him like he had killed her pet.
Shortly after the mail was delivered Leon was just about to head out when he heard four voices from the Gryffindor table shout in near perfect synchrony, “HE WHAT!??”
Leon looked over to see all four of the current boys of the Weasley family at Hogwarts huddled around their eldest.
Percy, who held a copy of the Daily Prophet in a white knuckled grip.
Ron looked like he was having a meltdown.
“He…
he slept in my bed!” Ron shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, hysterical whine that echoed across the entire Great Hall.
“He ate off my bloody plate!
Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ginny…
we’ve all bathed with him!” Ron literally threw his plate onto the floor, “For years!
And… and he was a bloody man the whole time!
I’m going to be sick.”
Percy was already sick, doubled over and puking onto the floor.
Trembling with rage.
The twins were equally outraged by what they read, but they also seemed mildly impressed.
Leon could see the gears in their heads turning.
He was fairly certain that wizarding Britain was about to get two more unregistered Animagus.
The Weasley family drama wasn’t all that was happening at the Gryffindor table.
Harry had actually had a good relationship with his aunt.
That stemmed from the fact that Lilly had actually included Petunia in her magical life as much as she was able.
Petunia had heard about Sirius Black, she had told Harry about him, and how he had apparently betrayed his parents.
Now, this article was flipping the script.
He’d believed Peter Pettigrew a hero.
His aunt had talked about it.
And now… Harry looked over at Hermione who was diving through various muggle newspaper clippings and books, then over at Leon.
Now he kind of understood.
Observing all of the chaos that was going on, Leon gave Harry a nod when their eyes met.
But otherwise he just observed the various tables as a whole and took in the mood.
The Slytherins looked introspective.
The Ravenclaws were buried in their notes, not paying any attention to the pandemonium around them.
And the Hufflepuffs were a solid mix of everyone’s reactions.
The Gryffindors were shouting and swearing vengeance and just generally being boisterous.
It took Professor McGonagall stepping in to get the Gryffindors to settle down.
And with them toning it down to a lower volume the Great Hall absorbed this juicy piece of gossip.
The Weasley’s were gonna have a hard time this year.
Everyone now had ammunition against them.
Leon picked up a discarded Daily Prophet and turned to the Skeeter article.
THE GREATEST SCOOP OF THE CENTURY!
“Dead” War Hero Peter Pettigrew Is Alive: And His Confession May Destroy Everything Wizarding Britain Believed About the First War”
An Exclusive by Rita Skeeter
Some stories, dear readers, arrive by owl.
Some by Floo.
The truly extraordinary ones, however, seem to arrive with a knock at the door.
Yesterday Morning, I answered mine to find a ghost.
Not the translucent, chain-rattling variety we are all familiar with.
A living one.
Thin.
Grey.
Trembling.
A wizard officially declared dead for over twelve years.
Peter Pettigrew!
The celebrated martyr of the First Wizarding War.
The brave young wizard whom history records as having confronted Sirius Black in a crowded Muggle street before being blasted into oblivion.
The hero whose sacrifice has been taught to Hogwarts students.
The friend who was mourned by an entire generation.
The corpse that never existed.
“I’ve come because you’ll print every word.” he said before I had uttered a single question.
Dear Reader, I did.
For the next seven hours Peter Pettigrew spoke with the desperate urgency of a drowning man finally breaking the surface.
There were no negotiations over wording, no attempts to soften his image, no carefully rehearsed excuses.
More than once, I reminded him that once these words reached the public there would be no taking them back.
His answer never changed.
“Good.”
When our interview concluded, Pettigrew rose from his chair, handed me a second copy of a confession several hundred pages long, thanked me for listening, and informed me he intended to walk directly into the Ministry of Magic and surrender himself.
He asked for no protection.
He requested no bargain.
He made only one demand.
“Print it all.”
By the time this edition reaches your breakfast table, that surrender has already taken place.
Ministry officials have confirmed that Peter Pettigrew is in custody and cooperating fully with investigators.
The Ministry has also confirmed something that would have been unthinkable only yesterday morning.
The conviction of Sirius Black is undergoing an immediate and comprehensive review in light of Pettigrew’s confession and the extraordinary new evidence now in Ministry hands.
One can scarcely overstate the significance of those words.
For twelve years, Wizarding Britain believed it knew precisely what had happened on that infamous street.
For twelve years, we believed Peter Pettigrew died a hero.
For twelve years, we believed Sirius Black murdered him.
Peter Pettigrew now claims neither is true.
His confession does not nibble at the edges of accepted history.
It tears the entire tapestry from the wall.
According to Pettigrew, he orchestrated his own disappearance.
He faked his death.
He framed another man.
He served the Dark Lord willingly.
He betrayed friends who trusted him absolutely.
He passed information that led directly to deaths he now describes as “mine as surely as if I’d cast the curses myself.”
He claims every honour ever bestowed upon his memory belongs to someone else.
Perhaps the most astonishing revelation is not that Peter Pettigrew lived.
It is how.
For twelve years, Britain’s fallen hero abandoned his wand, his name, and even his humanity to become something altogether smaller.
Scabbers.
The Weasley family’s pet rat.
Yes.
That Scabbers.
The lazy brown rat that generations of Hogwarts students scarcely glanced at twice.
While Aurors hunted shadows…
While grieving families laid flowers at a grave with no body beneath it…
While Sirius Black rotted in Azkaban…
Peter Pettigrew was sleeping in a child’s bedroom.
He ate scraps from the Weasley dinner table.
He rode in schoolbags and robe pockets.
He accepted affectionate scratches behind the ears from children who believed him no more than an unusually elderly rat.
He curled up beside them on winter evenings before the fire.
He accompanied them on holidays.
He watched birthdays.
Christmases.
First days at Hogwarts.
Family rows.
He even endured being bathed, dried, and fussed over as the family pet.
“I deserved every second of the humiliation.” he told me quietly.
“It was the closest thing I ever had to a prison.”
The image is almost too absurd to credit.
Yet Pettigrew insists those years became a punishment more effective than any cell.
Every act of kindness shown to him by the unsuspecting family became another reminder of the people whose kindness he had betrayed.
Every bedtime story he overheard reminded him of the childhood Harry Potter, the son of his best friend, had been robbed of.
Every Christmas morning reminded him that James and Lily Potter would never see another.
In the end, he says, it was not an Auror who broke him.
It was an eleven-year-old boy.
On the first of September, Pettigrew accompanied the youngest Weasley son to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, hidden as always in a pocket.
There he saw Harry Potter.
Not the legend.
Not the Boy Who Lived.
Simply a child looking for a place to sit on the Hogwarts Express.
“I looked at him,” Pettigrew said, “and I realized I’d spent twelve years hiding from a boy who had never once looked for revenge.
I had stolen everything from him, and he still smiled at strangers.”
He tells me that was the moment the fear finally lost to the guilt.
The rat, at long last, found himself unable to hide behind his whiskers.
The latter half of Pettigrew’s confession reads less like a memoir than an avalanche.
He names names.
Not dozens.
Scores.
Couriers.
Financiers.
Recruiters.
Sympathizers.
Those who offered sanctuary.
Those who supplied information.
Those who carried messages.
Those who pledged loyalty in secret while presenting spotless reputations in public.
He distinguishes carefully between certainty, suspicion, and hearsay, insisting that where his memory is imperfect, he says so plainly.
Where he is certain, however, he is utterly unsparing.
Even toward himself.
“I was never forced,” he told me.
“Fear explains me.
It does not excuse me.”
History has a curious habit of elevating cowards into heroes when the truth dies before they do.
Peter Pettigrew has accomplished something almost unprecedented.
He has murdered the myth built around himself.
Whether his confession can restore justice to those denied it for twelve long years is a question now before the Ministry.
One suspects that before this investigation is over, far more than one ghost will return to haunt Wizarding Britain.
And this time, they will not be silent.
“One hell of an article.” Leon muttered to himself.
It was perfect.
Rita Skeeter might have been hated by the fanbase of the Harry Potter franchise in his previous life.
But she certainly knew how to present her articles in a way to capture the wizarding world’s attention.
And turning that ability of hers to his own use was a satisfying thing indeed.
Now the Ministry had no choice but to undergo a series of internal investigations.
Pettigrew should have been found long ago.
Sirius Black should have been interrogated properly.
If he had been properly interrogated, Pettigrew would have been a wanted man, hunted, with nowhere to go.
He would have been caught eventually.
Sirius would have been a free man this entire time.
The implications of Rita’s article also pointed to large numbers of still free Death Eaters.
The wizarding world would be in an uproar over this for months to come.
The halls were still buzzing with people talking about that bombshell of an article when Leon and his fellow Hufflepuffs entered the First-Year Transfiguration classroom.
A cat sitting on the desk.
Leon didn’t even need his meta-knowledge to know that the cat was Professor McGonagall.
To his metaphysical senses, she wasn’t different at all from any other time he’d seen her.
“Good morning, Professor.” He said with a nod to the cat as he took a seat.
The cat on the desk gave zero indication that she had heard him.
Not even an ear flick or a slowing of tail that was waving back and forth.
Leon didn’t let it bother him.
Several of the first year girls around him gave him looks.
But Leon ignored them all and pulled his copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration out of his robes.
He opened the book to the point he had left off at last time.
Transfiguration was one of those subjects that his meta-knowledge couldn’t really help him with all that much.
The books made a big deal about how hard it was, how dangerous it was, and how impressive it was when anyone could use it competently.
But there was like, maybe, one or two transfiguration spells that ever even got an incantation to go with them.
There was never an incantation given for the match turning into a silver needle for instance.
But at this point in time, not one of the first-year students could cast spells non-verbally.
Which meant that there had to be an incantation that was just never shown.
And just like with Magical Theory, A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration didn’t contain a single incantation but referenced a single spell over and over throughout its pages.
When the bells chimed, the cat on the desk jumped into the air and transformed before the stunned students’ eyes into Professor McGonagall.
Most of the Hufflepuff girls looked from the suddenly appearing professor to Leon with a ‘how did he know’ expression on their faces.
“It is good to see such a punctual class.” She said, her expression not changing from her trademarked thin lipped severe expression, “Now let’s get started, shall we?
Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts.” McGonagall said, her crisp, Scottish voice carrying an absolute authority that instantly silenced the room.
“Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back.
You have been warned.
We begin with the basics.
Can any of you tell me what Gamp’s law is?”
Darcy Malfoy raised her hand, “You cannot create something out of True, absolute nothing,” she said with her haughty tone.
“One point to Slytherin!” McGonagall said, “However, that is only part of Gamp’s Law.
It continues: Whenever a witch or wizard casts a conjuration or transfiguration spell, they are altering what is already there.
Magical pressure maintains the form and properties of the objects conjured or transfigured until the energy of the spell fades.
Can any of you tell me what this means?”
Leon raised his hand, “It means that everything done with Conjuration or Transfiguration is fundamentally fake.
Solid illusions held in their form by magical energy alone.”
“One point to Hufflepuff!
I would, however, note that the transformation is real until the magic runs out.
Instead of thinking of it as fake, think of it as temporary.” McGonagall said to the class.
Leon didn’t argue, from one point of view it was true after all.
A temporary sword through the gut is still a sword through the gut.
Regardless of whether or not it turned into a feather five minutes later.
But from his perspective, it meant that transfiguration was just solid illusion work.
Which was honestly more impressive in his mind.
Illusions so real that you could actually touch them.
“Now, can any of you name any of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law?”
Darcy again raised her hand, “Food.” she said confidently.
“Excellent!
Another point for Slytherin.” McGonagall was about to continue but noticed Leon’s hand raised and indicated for him to go.
“Umm… so, I have a question.
Why are they called exceptions?
Gamp’s Law already clearly defines that all conjurations and transfigurations are temporary.
Obviously, you cannot make food out of temporary matter.
The money one just seems like a rule put in place to stop wizards from destroying muggle economies and taking advantage of exchanging muggle money.
And again, how exactly would one create a real lifeform from temporary stuff?
Then there’s the knowledge thing, like, it seems completely obvious that a wizard transfiguring something can’t create knowledge that they don’t have, they are the ones casting the spell after all.
And then the fifth one, not being able to forge magical artifacts out of mundane materials seems odd because fundamentally all transfigured objects are highly complex magical objects, even if it’s just a stick turned into a bigger stick, that bigger stick is now a magical artifact by its very nature.”
Professor McGonagall looked at Leon with her usual severe look though he could see gears turning in her head, “Five points to Hufflepuff for naming all five exceptions.
Though in a roundabout way.
You do seem to have a few misconceptions in there Mister McKinnon-Prewett.
Allow me to remove them.” Professor McGonagall proceeded to conjure a glass cup filled with water.
“With your understanding, please tell me what I have in my hand.”
Leon knew that he was walking into a trap, but he didn’t actually know where this was going.
“From my understanding you have a fake or temporary glass of water in your hand.”
Professor McGonagall smiled and drank the cup of water before setting the glass down on her large wooden desk, “That is where you are wrong.
The glass itself is temporary, but the water was real and safe to drink, though quite tasteless and not safe to drink exclusively over a long period of time.
Can anyone tell me why?
Or how the water was not temporary?”
Leon’s mind churned over the question.
The only thing that he could think of was based on the fact that the water was unsafe if drunk exclusively over a long period of time and that it was basically tasteless.
Distilled water was like that.
It was fine to drink to quench a sudden thirst, but it wasn’t safe over long periods of time because the body desperately needs the various minerals, electrolytes, and other natural compounds found in regular water that give it its taste.
Without them, distilled water actually leaches essential minerals right out of a person’s cells.
Leon raised his hand tentatively once more this time less sure of himself, “As to why the water would be unsafe over long periods, I would say that it sounds like distilled water, or in this case conjured water, and only water, which lacks all of the minerals and other natural compounds that the body needs.
But I do not know why it would be real and permanent.”
“Because of Gamp’s Law mister McKinnon-Prewett.
Everything needed to create water is right here with us, in the air we are breathing.
The conjuration gathers the materials and forces them into shape.
Which is a natural shape and form that does not require further magical pressure to stabilize.
And so, the water is real water.
By your reckoning mister McKinnon-Prewett, this should actually be considered an exception to Gamp’s law.” McGonagall explained.
Leon processed that for a moment, “Then doesn’t that mean that you could extract gold from sea water?
Platinum from roadsides?
And as long as a transfiguration accounted for the actual mass of an item and didn’t deform its shape into something that requires active magical intervention it would be permanent?”
Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, “You are correct, that a perfectly executed transfiguration of, lets say, a kilo of iron into a 1 kilo bird statue of the same material would be a permanent transfiguration, however, the perfection necessary to accomplish this is stepping out of transfiguration and into the category of alchemy.
Not transfiguration.
Though I would pose a question: how, pray tell, would one extract gold from sea water?”
Leon cocked his head to the side, he felt like this should be common knowledge, “Well, I don’t know the numbers off the top of my head, I would have to do some research on it.
But ocean water contains a certain amount of parts per million or billion of gold.
Muggles can extract it from the water, but the cost outweighs the value of the gold by an astronomical margin.”
Professor McGonagall, for once, looked actually interested, “Is this true?
Muggles extracting gold from sea water?”
Leon nodded, “If you would like I can write to my mother and have her send the relevant muggle studies so you can see for yourself that I’m not pulling your leg.
But like I said, it’s highly inefficient and muggles can’t justify the cost.
I thought maybe transfiguration could bridge that gap.”
Professor McGonagall shook her head, “With the concentration so small that it is in individual parts per million or even billions, in this particular case, you are getting solidly into the field of Alchemy.
You can think of Alchemy as a combination of Potions, Transfiguration, Enchanting, and Ritual magics.
Exceedingly complex, volatile, and dangerous.
Beauxbatons is the only magical school in Europe that teaches the subject, though it is not part of their mandatory education.
It is a five-year course that only their graduates can sign up for, and even then, only those scored exceptionally high.
But we are getting far off topic.
Let us return to today’s topic.”
With Leon’s distraction out of the way, Professor McGonagall proceeded to lecture the class on the principles and fundamentals of transfiguration.
With only about twenty minutes left in the class, Professor McGonagall retrieved a box full of matchsticks and began setting them on holders before each of the students.
“Now that we have established the fundamentals, it is time to practice.
Your goal is to turn the matchstick into a needle.
The incantation is Verto, with a simple light thrust of your wand.
Remember, Visualization, and Determination.
Are the key.
Hold the image of a needle in your mind, cast the spell, and enforce it with your Determination.”
Leon finally had the spell.
Verto was essentially a universal spell that could transform anything into anything.
So long as the witch or wizard casting it could power the transfiguration.
Visualization was easy for Leon, he had always had a vivid imagination, akin to a full 3-D simulation inside his skull.
Determination was essentially the application of willpower to the spell.
One was not requesting that the item politely allow itself to be reshaped, they were demanding that it obey.
And that Determination was the hardest part.
Leon focused his mind on the image of a needle.
Feeling its weight, its texture, its sharp point, the eye of the needle, even the taste and sound it would make if he dropped it.
He fully visualized every aspect of a needle that he could think of.
Once he had the entire picture in his mind, he looked at the matchstick with a sharp glare.
He lifted his wand and commanded, “Verto” as he performed a little thrust at the matchstick.
The entire matchstick rippled and changed.
But he had lost focus on his image.
Instead of a sharp perfect threading needle like he had been attempting, it looked more like nail than a needle.
Leon rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a quiet, frustrated breath.
His imagination was practically a high-end simulation engine and could perfectly construct a 4K, high-fidelity layout of a needle down to the cold, metallic taste and the crisp ting it would make hitting the floor.
But the moment his physical mouth had to form the word “Verto” while his arm executed the precise, snapping thrust of his Ebony wand, he was losing some of that precision.
“A fascinating detour, Mister McKinnon-Prewett.” McGonagall noted, her crisp footsteps coming to a halt beside his station.
She tapped the heavy iron nail with her wand.
“A bit robust for a piece of haberdashery, but the transformation is remarkably complete.
Your determination is fierce, if slightly misdirected.
Keep at it!”
“Thank you, Professor,” Leon said, “and you can just pick one of my names, you know.
You don’t have to use the full hyphenation every time.”
McGonagall paused, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of her strict mouth as she adjusted her spectacles.
“Nonsense, Mister McKinnon-Prewett.
I shall do no such thing.
Both lines earned their place in these halls, and I expect you to carry them with equal gravity.
Now, focus on the taper of the point.”
With a swish of her robes, she drifted down the aisle to rescue a Slytherin whose matchstick had grown a pair of useless wooden whiskers.
Leon kept replacing the matchsticks with new ones.
His desk was slightly cluttered with failures, so he scooped them all up and pushed them into a random spot in Coldharbour, making it look like he had just shoved them into his pocket.
After another dozen failures, Leon finally got it right!
He looked at the gleaming needle in the holder with a smile.
The rest of the failures swept under the rug that was Coldharbour.
The final needle wasn’t perfect.
It was ever so slightly curved, and the eye was not what he had been envisioning.
But it was unmistakably a needle.
“Mister McKinnon-Prewett.”
McGonagall’s voice sounded out beside him as he admired his needle, “Well done, it is almost perfect.
It looks like Miss Granger has competition this year.
10 points to Hufflepuff for your extraordinary progress today.”
She stepped back and raised her voice to address the whole room, “Class dismissed!
Remember, I want an essay on the basic principles of transfiguration delivered to me at next week on Tuesday.”
The students all started gathering their things and heading out the door.
Leon was about to follow suit when McGonagall turned to Leon, “You may complete the standard assignment young man.
However, should you wish, I would be willing to throw in some house points if you would also give me a full and complete essay breaking down Gamp’s Law.
The exceptions. Follow the newest chapters on novelping.com.
And any, ‘real exceptions’ that you can put together.
You may find that things are not as… cut and dry as they appear at first glance.”
She paused and gave Leon a pointed look, “I would also be highly interested in an elaboration on your observation of the fifth exception.
I will admit, I never quite considered a transfigured object to be a complex magical artifact inherently.
But the observation has merit and may warrant a deeper inspection.
Should you choose to take up the extra assignment, please have it submitted to me by, or on Halloween.”
With that, McGonagall shooed Leon out of the now empty classroom without giving him a chance to respond.
Leon headed to the DADA classroom, his mind churning over what he had just learned and the fundamental difficulties of Transfiguration magic.
He understood now exactly why children had such a difficult time with the subject.
The precise combination of vivid imagination, unyielding determination, and physical action meant that the overactive imaginations of children were actually a detriment to their casting.
Furthermore, the sheer Determination required to enforce a change was a commanding mindset that timid or shy individuals would naturally struggle to muster.
Balancing those two opposing mental states precisely, all while actively casting a spell and speaking an incantation, were simply not natural behaviors for anyone.
Let alone kids who hadn’t even hit puberty yet.
Walking into the DADA classroom, Leon paused and looked around.
The chairs were all gone.
Even Quirrell’s desk had been moved off to the side of the classroom, tucked away into a corner.
Arranged in a neat row where the measuring machine had been last class were six mannequins holding sticks that looked like wands in one hand, and shields in their other hand.
The mannequins were actively observing the students who were gathering in front of them, tilting their heads and following their motion in an almost creepy, lifelike way.
When the bell chimed, Professor Quirrell started the class.
It was essentially the same thing as the day prior.
Except this time the combat mannequins were standing there bracing themselves behind their shields, letting the first years practice the Knockback Jinx.
Instead of that contraption that had been moved off to the side of the classroom.
Professor Quirrell actively engaged with the students who seemed to be struggling and offered advice where needed.
Leon found the Knockback Jinx to be quite easy to cast.
And the modulation of its output was very intuitive to control.
At full power, the Knockback Jinx stopped being a harmless shove and turned more into a violent crash.
Leon was certain that at full power this ‘jinx’ could easily kill a person, shattering bones or causing severe internal damage.
It would be even more deadly if it caught someone flat-footed against a stone wall.
At normal levels, however, the spell behaved exactly as intended.
The equivalent of a hard, physical shove.
During the final fifteen minutes of the class, Professor Quirrell stopped the practical applications and simply discussed the first and second chapters of The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.
After the short lecture he told everyone to read the next chapter of the book by their next class and dismissed them a few minutes before noon.
Before leaving Leon decided that he might as well give the Professor his essay before he left.
That way he wouldn’t need to worry about it.
He pulled the roll of parchment from where it was stored in Coldharbour and handed it to Professor Quirrell before heading out the door.
Lunch was an interesting affair.
The entire Weasley tribe was gathered around the Gryffindor table.
Looking better than they had this morning, but visibly still shaken by the news that their ‘pet’ had been a grown wizard the entire time.
The gossip mill was churning out stories of Pettigrew possibly doing things to the children in their sleep.
After all, he was a grown wizard.
The stories were getting truly outlandish.
But beyond that, the stories actually held a bit of believability.
Scabbers had been passed down through ten years of Hogwarts history.
He had been found in the female prefects’ bathrooms more than once.
The implications were sobering to many.
And with the existence of memory altering and wiping magics?
Yeah, don’t even need to say it.
The realization of what Pettigrew could have done without anyone remembering the violation had most of the student body chilled to the bone.
Oddly, the stories didn’t seem to be something that the rest of the school was wielding against the Weasleys.
Instead of face-saving mockery, all Leon heard from the surrounding tables was a wave of overwhelming sympathy for them.
The family was universally recognized as the ultimate victims of a decade-long deception.
But layered heavily on top of all that sympathy was a sharp, dangerous anger directed squarely at the Hogwarts staff.
The student body was turning its fury toward the headmaster and the professors.
For a literal decade, the authorities of this castle had allowed a vile, potentially perverted, dark wizard to prowl the castle like it was absolutely nothing.
There was simply no telling if he had done anything to lone girls or boys in the corridors or the loo at night.
The illusion of safety in the castle was in complete shambles.
If the staff couldn’t even detect a middle-aged Animagus living in their own tower, what else were they missing?
And it wasn’t only the student body.
Seemingly every single parent had sent dozens of Howlers and regular letters to the headmaster and professors.
Up at the staff table, the professors were constantly casting charms to isolate the sound from the letters screaming at them from the rest of the school.
Honestly, when Leon had decided to make Dremora Pettigrew turn himself in so publicly, he hadn’t been thinking about all the extra implications.
He’d been thinking about Sirius Black, and getting still unidentified Death Eater caught.
The reason for the interview with Rita was to make sure that the ministry couldn’t sweep it under the rug and potentially assassinate Sirius to keep everything quite.
But to the mothers and fathers of the wizarding world, the confession meant their children had been sleeping in the same castle as a dark wizard predator for ten years while they were supposedly safe at Hogwarts.
History of magic was just as boring the second time as it had been the first time.
Professor Binns seemed to have a talent for speaking in a perfect monotone that was just soothing enough that it made for an excellent napping background noise.
As History of Magic wrapped up, Professor Binns changed up his tone of voice and made an announcement, “I have been informed that this evening, attendance to dinner is mandatory at 8 O’clock.
The Headmaster has a few announcements to make.”
Leon wondered what that was going to be about, but he just shrugged and brought his essay out and slipped it into the automatic grader at the back of Binns classroom.
With that done, Leon found that aside from the school gathering at dinner, he was absolutely free for the rest of the day.
He could go and start looking into Wandless magic… He shook is head and decided to return to the Hufflepuff common room.
He would write the basic essay for Transfiguration and then assess what he wanted to do afterwards.
Leon actually found himself looking forward to writing out the essays now that his calligraphy was so effortless.
It was soothing in a way.
It almost felt like he was cheating with how easily everything flowed.
And the end results looking so clean, so precise, and imposing was just fun.
Spending those 5k OP had definitely been worthwhile.
Back in the common room, Leon was just about to put quill to parchment when Gabriel, the seventh year prefect, cleared her throat and waved her hand at him to get his attention.
“Hey Leon, Professor Sprout said to send you to her office if I saw you.
Do you know where it is?” she asked.
Leon didn’t know what it was about writing essays.
But it seemed like literally every time he sat down to write, something interrupted him.
He didn’t sigh or express frustration at Gabriel, if anything he was amused.
And he wondered what he could possibly be getting called to the office about.
“Yes, I know the way.
Celina Diggory took me on a full tour Saturday morning.
Thank you for letting me know.” He said while capping his inkwell and stowing everything he had set out.
“So that’s why you skipped out on the prefect tour?” Gabriel said with a knowing smile on her face, “Celina is a great girl!
One of Hufflepuff’s best and brightest.
It’s a shame that she’s a Peace Main and not a Badger Main.
But we all have our flaws.” Gabriel sighed dramatically then shrugged, “Anyway toodles.”
Leon found himself wondering what a Peace Main or Badger Main was.
But it didn’t matter at the moment.
He stood up and headed for the greenhouses.
Professor Sprouts office was directly connected to the greenhouses.
Once he arrived at Professor Sprouts office Leon paused for a moment before knocking.
“Enter!” He heard from within.
Leon opened the door to find an office that was more like an organized micro-greens farming operation.
Except, in this case, the micro-greens happened to be all kinds of magical seedlings arranged in neat, orderly rows.
Trays and pots lined shelves that each had warm magical lights positioned around them.
At the absolute center of the room sat Professor Sprout.
She was seated at a large desk overflowing with potted plants, deeply occupied with either grading papers or writing letters.
“You asked to see me, Professor?” Leon said as he approached her desk.
She glanced up from where she was scribbling down notes.
“Ah, yes!
Mister McKinnon-Prewett.
Please sit down for a moment and allow me to finish up.”
Leon nodded and took a seat on a stool off to the side.
He casually looked over the massive variety of flora crowding the room; there was a little bit of everything.
The air smelled strongly of damp soil with distinct undertones of heavy fertilizer.
He’d been looking around for maybe half a minute when the rustle of papers shuffling drew his attention back to Sprout.
“Now, where did I put that thing?” she muttered to herself, digging through the chaotic shelves of her desk drawers.
“Aha!” she exclaimed triumphantly, pulling a crisp sheet of parchment from the mess.
“Mr.
McKinnon-Prewett.
This morning, Professor Quirrell brought me this, since I am your Head of House.
It is your essay on the Knockback Jinx and novel uses for it.
Now, the contents of the essay are not the probl-”
Leon raised a hand to politely interrupt her.
She paused, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“I already know what you are going to say,” Leon said bluntly.
“Just hand me some parchment and a quill.
I knew that I would have to prove myself.
Not many other children my age have calligraphy as a hobby, after all.”
Professor Sprout looked slightly taken aback by his forwardness, but she quickly collected herself.
Nodding, she cleared a small patch of wood on her desk and laid down a standard quill.
“Please do demonstrate,” she said.
“You have to understand; we must be absolutely certain that you are not using an auto-quill or something of that nature.
The Ministry takes this kind of thing very seriously.
You may not know this, but every single essay a student writes, since the Ministry’s founding, is actually copied and stored in the official transcripts of their time at school.
It becomes a permanent part of your file to help them determine employment suitability later in life.
As such, one’s genuine hand with ink and quill is strictly demanded for all official schoolwork.
We get into serious trouble if we allow students to use alternative means of writing.”
Leon nodded, it made sense.
The Ministry probably also watched for key phrases, and recurring patterns of nonconformist rhetoric for blacklisting purposes as well.
Though he didn’t mention that part out loud.
He just quietly accepted the quill that Professor Sprout provided and wrote out a couple of quick lines from Dr.
Sues.
For some reason the whole green eggs and ham story had come to mind the second he started writing and he rolled with it.
Despite the silly lines about not liking green eggs and ham, the text came out looking exactly like all of his other writing.
Mildly predatory, slightly jagged and angular in a way felt aggressive and commanded to the one looking at the words to read them like they were imperial commands.
It felt extra strange that the contents of the words were so silly.
“My goodness, that is a sight.” Sprout murmured as Leon turned the page back over to her, along with her quill.
“Thank you for the demonstration, Leon.
I would give you house points for such an extraordinary display.
But that would look a little too much like favoritism.” She said as she inspected the parchment, “Do you mind if I keep this?”
“If you want, but that’ll be a million Galleons.” Leon said looking down at his fingernails haughtily for a moment before cracking a smile at the look she gave him.
Professor Sprout let out a hearty laugh, “Well, I certainly can’t afford your services at such a steep cost.
I suppose I’ll just have to take the bureaucratic route and declare this parchment to be contraband that I simply must confiscate for the good of the school.
A piece of parchment with a few lines scribbled on it, valued so highly?
It simply must be a dark artifact of some sort.”
“Fair enough Professor,” Leon said with a chuckle.
“Oh, I needed a laugh.” Professor Sprout said lightly, “This whole business with Pettigrew turning himself in has the world in an uproar.
You wouldn’t believe how many letters I’ve received today.” She shook her head with a deep sigh, “Well, off you go.
I shall inform the rest of the staff that you are simply an extremely gifted Calligrapher.
You should have no more problems on that front.
Make sure you are in the Great Hall at eight.”
“Good evening then, Professor.” Leon said as he stood up and slid the stool he had been sitting on out of the way.
Leon returned to the Hufflepuff common room, setting up to work on his essays at one of the tables until it was time for dinner.
He was very glad that he had been sorted into Hufflepuff.
The basement common room was incredibly convenient; the Great Hall was practically just up a single flight of stairs, so he never had to rush out of the room super early to beat the crowds.
Despite the short walk and lack of urgency, Leon still ended up arriving at the Great Hall fifteen minutes early.
He simply couldn’t help himself.
In his previous life back on Earth, Leon had done a four-year stint in the military.
Ever since that time in the service, he had developed a near compulsion to always be early to any event, even if it was completely casual or unimportant.
Sometimes he found himself arriving almost an hour early to things because the mere thought of being late gave him genuine anxiety.
Military trauma at its finest.
And somehow, it had managed to follow him through to a second life.
He sat down quietly at the Hufflepuff table, smoothing his yellow-and-black tie as he waited for 8 o’clock to roll in.
The vast majority of the student body was already present as well.
Everyone was curious about what was going to be said.
Though everyone could easily guess that it had to do with the whole Peter Pettigrew situation coming to light.
Food was spread across the tables, and Leon piled himself a high plate of everything that was available then got comfortable.
When the clock struck 8 the Great Hall went dead silent as Dumbledore strode up to the podium that was usually reserved for official occasions.
Dumbledore’s eyes held that characteristic twinkle, but his expression was significantly more somber than usual.
His normal, easy smile, replaced with a serious look.
“The events that have been revealed to us over the past twenty-four hours have shaken the very foundations of this institution.” Dumbledore began, his voice magically magnified so it echoed cleanly over the quiet hall.
“A grave deception was maintained within these walls for a decade, and for that, I take full and absolute responsibility.
However, I must speak directly to the fears that have gripped both you and your parents today.
The worst of these fears, the darkest speculations echoing through these corridors, are entirely unfounded.
Hogwarts itself would never have allowed such things to happen.
There is a reason why, over this school’s one-thousand-year history, only a select few students have ever died or been seriously injured within its walls.
And there has never been a single case of personal violations, the likes of which you fear, ever recorded to have happened in this school.
For a thousand years of cohabitation by young men and women, such a record should be impossible.
Yet it stands.”
Dumbledore raised a hand, gesturing to the towering stone walls and the starry enchanted ceiling above them, “The castle itself is partially alive.
It possesses ancient, deeply woven measures that it can use to actively step in and prevent certain dark things from ever occurring.
The castle distinguishes between childish misconduct and genuine predation.
It intervenes only when true harm is intended.
Those tragic few who have died over the centuries were unfortunate enough to have encountered isolated situations that the castle could not physically respond to in time.
But Peter Pettigrew could not, and did not, cross those ancient lines.
You were protected from the worst of him, even when we were blind.”
Dumbledore cast his gaze over the crowd for a long moment before he raised his voice once more, “All that being said.
I am sorry.
I have failed you all.
Failed the people and students I have sworn to protect.
And I have failed at least one friend who has suffered for over a decade.
I deeply and sincerely apologize for this failure.”
Leon had not been expecting the public self-flagellation.
It was humbling to see the man hailed as the greatest wizard in the world apologizing like this.
Dumbledore cleared his throat and continued, “I have already begun to take measures to rectify this failure.
New security measures that I am actively creating to ensure that such a thing never happens again.
These measures will take time to implement.
But you can rest assured that every waking moment of mine is being dedicated to ensuring the safety of you all.
Thank you for your time.”
With that, Dumbledore stepped back and retreated from the Great Hall.
Looking more like a beaten weary old man than a living legend at the moment.