Daimon was famous.
Completely famous.
Before the Potions class, Daimon’s fame was limited to the Hogwarts first-years; they roughly knew there was a very outstanding Gryffindor freshman.
After the Potions class, everyone knew that Hogwarts had produced a young wizard who had argued back and forth with Snape in class, not only holding his own but leaving the Potions Master absolutely furious.
When Daimon returned to the Gryffindor common room, everyone stared at him.
The Weasley twins even pulled out several magical fireworks from behind their backs, setting them off toward the ceiling.
“A warm welcome to the triumphant return of Gryffindor’s champion!” George shouted theatrically.
“We all heard about it.
You gave Snape a piece of your mind in class.
I can only say, brilliant job,” Fred chimed in.
“We’ve wanted to do that for ages!” the twins’ friend Lee Jordan pumped his fist, looking extremely excited.
This guy was a die-hard Gryffindor who held a massive grudge against Slytherin, a trait he fully displayed whenever he commentated on Hogwarts Quidditch matches.
“But Snape docked fifty points from Gryffindor because of it,” Hermione said, looking deeply worried.
The twins laughed heartily.
“Miss Granger, look at the people around you.
Who cares?
Compared to House Cup points, making Snape and Slytherin miserable is far more satisfying.” The surrounding Gryffindors joined in agreement.
Over the past few years, from the House Cup to Quidditch matches, Gryffindor had been suppressed by Slytherin for too long, and the bad blood ran deep.
But Hermione clearly did not agree with, or perhaps did not understand, this attitude.
Frowning, she pulled Daimon by the sleeve to a corner near the fireplace.
“Daimon, I don’t think this is good,” Hermione said, anxiety laced in her tone.
“Fifty points!
A whole fifty points!
Gryffindor’s hourglass is practically empty.
Of course, I’m not blaming you, but it’s only the beginning of the term.
If we lose the House Cup in the end because of this…” “Hermione,” Daimon interrupted.
“What do you think is the meaning of the House Cup?” Hermione froze for a moment.
“The meaning?
It’s the honor of our house.
It represents all our hard work throughout the year.” “So honor is just that cup, the banners in the Great Hall, or a few words of praise from Dumbledore at the leaving feast?” Daimon’s tone wasn’t heavy, but every word was crystal clear.
“You’re very smart, Hermione.
You should know better than anyone that some things are more important than points.” “But—” Hermione bit her lip.
“But rules are rules…” “That doesn’t sound like something a Gryffindor should say,” Daimon chuckled.
“Rules are made by people.
If a rule is unreasonable, why should we follow it?” Hermione was stunned.
The fire in the hearth crackled, casting shifting shadows over her fluctuating expression.
Daimon said nothing more.
He understood that other people’s logic would always belong to them; true transformation could only be achieved by oneself.
Such change could not be accomplished overnight.
It required time and guidance.
He thought very highly of Hermione.
If he could regain his full divine power in the future and wanted to build an empire in the wizarding world, he would need brilliant, unconventional wizards to follow him.
There was plenty of time.
He planned to subtly cultivate a group of followers at Hogwarts.
Hermione’s talent made her worthy of his attention, and he hoped she wouldn’t disappoint him.
Just then, the portrait of the Fat Lady at the entrance of the common room suddenly swung open.
A stern voice drifted in.
“Mr.
Ignis.” Everyone’s eyes shot toward the entrance in unison.
Professor McGonagall stood there, her emerald-green robes immaculate, her lips pursed in a thin line.
The gaze behind her square spectacles was as sharp as two blades.
“Come with me.” The common room instantly fell silent.
The twins exchanged glances, their smiles fading slightly.
Lee Jordan took half a step back—this look on Professor McGonagall’s face usually spelt big trouble.
“Daimon…” Hermione pulled his sleeve worriedly.
“It’s fine,” Daimon stood up and walked calmly toward Professor McGonagall.
As he passed the twins, George whispered, “Good luck, Daimon.” Fred added, “If you need backup, we’re right here.” Daimon nodded slightly but didn’t look back, following Professor McGonagall out of Gryffindor Tower.
The two walked in silence.
Professor McGonagall walked ahead with quick, energetic strides, her robes billowing slightly behind her.
She didn’t look back at Daimon, nor did she speak a single word.
This silence was more oppressive than any scolding; any ordinary first-year would have been trembling with anxiety by now.
But Daimon was no ordinary first-year.
He followed quietly behind, traversing the moving staircases until they reached Professor McGonagall’s office.
Professor McGonagall’s office wasn’t large, but it was warm and cozy.
“Sit,” Professor McGonagall said, pointing to the chair in front of her desk.
Daimon sat down.
Professor McGonagall clasped her hands on the desk, staring at him in silence for a full ten seconds.
“Do you know why I have called you here?” she finally spoke.
“Because I was disrespectful to Professor Snape in class, talked back to him, and showed no remorse after points were docked,” Daimon said flatly.
The corner of Professor McGonagall’s mouth twitched slightly, though it was hard to tell if she was angry or experiencing some other emotion.
“You are honest,” she said.
“Then I shall not waste my breath.
For the next four weeks, every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, you will come to my office for detention.” “Very well, Professor,” Daimon nodded, neither asking what the detention would entail nor showing any dissatisfaction.
This caused Professor McGonagall to look at him more closely.
“You don’t want to ask what you will be doing?” “Asking won’t change the outcome,” Daimon said.
“Besides, Professor, you are a master of Transfiguration.
Even if the detention is just dusting your desk, getting to spend time alone with you after class is hardly a loss.” Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows rose slightly.
“You certainly have a way with words.” “I am merely stating facts.” Professor McGonagall stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly drew her wand and gave it a gentle flick.
The teacup on the desk instantly turned into a lively white rabbit.
The rabbit hopped around the desk, sniffed Daimon’s hand curiously, and was then turned back into a teacup by McGonagall.
The entire process took less than three seconds.
“What do you think of this Transfiguration?” Professor McGonagall asked.
Daimon glanced at the teacup and said seriously, “Perfect.
Nonverbal casting, instantaneous, stable structure, without a single trace of excess magical fluctuation.
It requires extreme control and years of practice.” “Your assessment is highly accurate.
To be honest, if Professor Dumbledore hadn’t told me, I would truly find it hard to believe you grew up in Muggle society,” Professor McGonagall paused.
“But that is not what I wanted to ask.
I wanted to ask you—would you like to learn?” The atmosphere in the office became even more delicate.
Daimon fell silent for two seconds, then asked, “Am I allowed to learn it yet?” Given the display Professor McGonagall had just shown, it was obviously not part of the first-year curriculum.
“Special talent always warrants special methods of cultivation.
Judging by this week, you are no longer suited to continue studying first-year Transfiguration.
It would be a waste of your gift.” Professor McGonagall’s evaluation of Daimon was incredibly high.
Furthermore, her intention was already perfectly clear.
Daimon’s eyes lit up, and he pressed, “Professor McGonagall, when does my detention begin?” Professor McGonagall offered a very faint smile.
“The day after tomorrow, at seven o’clock sharp,” she said.
“You may leave now,” Professor McGonagall waved her hand.
“Go back and get some proper rest.
My detentions will not be easy.” Daimon stood up, gave her a slight nod, and turned toward the office door.
“Daimon.” He stopped.
“I will not pursue today’s matter in Potions class further, though I do not entirely agree with Professor Snape’s teaching methods either,” Professor McGonagall’s voice drifted from behind.
“But I want you to understand: the greater your power, the more you must learn when to display it—and when to rein it in.” Daimon turned around.
Behind her spectacles, Professor McGonagall’s eyes held no blame, only a sense of expectation.
It was the kind of expectation one had when looking at a piece of unpolished jade, pondering where to make the first cut.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Professor.” Daimon walked out of the office, his lips curling slightly upward.
Detention?
It wasn’t detention.
It was a key handed to him by Professor McGonagall—the key to the hall of advanced Transfiguration.
It had been worth deliberately acting so extraordinary this week.
This was exactly what he wanted.
As for Professor McGonagall’s advice just now, it had already vanished into the wind, hadn’t it?