The air in the Transfiguration classroom tasted like chalk dust and old stone, and it carried the weight of Professor McGonagall’s voice before she even opened her mouth.
When she did, the words cut.
“Transfiguration will be the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts.”
She let that settle, her gaze sweeping the rows of first-years like a hawk sizing up field mice.
“Anyone who dares to misbehave in my class will be expelled and never allowed to return. Remember my warning.”
The silence that followed had teeth.
Then she tapped her wand against the lectern.
The wood rippled—no, gathered itself—and with a soft, wet whoosh, a pig stood where the lectern had been.
Pink, bristled, alive.
It snuffled, took a half-step, and for one heart-stopping moment, Elias was certain it would charge into the front row.
Then it shimmered and folded back into polished oak, and the class exhaled as a single creature.
Every student leaned forward.
Even the Slytherins, who had already decided their first attempts would be embarrassing, felt the pull of possibility.
“You are, I’m afraid, some distance from being able to do that,” Professor McGonagall said, and the words landed like a gentle boot on a spark.
“Now, please turn to the first page of your textbooks. Today, we will discuss the basic theory.”
Pages rustled.
Then came the sigh—a collective deflation as they stared at the dense, unbroken text.
Professor McGonagall’s mouth twitched.
“If we learn quickly, we might be able to try a simple transformation before the end of class.”
Spines straightened.
Quills were gripped with renewed purpose.
Elias already knew the theory.
His Transfiguration skill sat at Level 3, built from years of secret practice in a London flat where magic was a solitary, impossible thing.
But watching McGonagall structure the lesson—the way she layered concept on concept, the precision of her language—sent something clicking through his mind.
Experience trickled in, quiet and steady.
[Transfiguration LV.3 — 921 EXP]
He took notes anyway, because Hermione was watching, and because the act of writing helped the knowledge settle.
When the grandfather clock’s pendulum had swung far enough, Professor McGonagall moved between the desks, placing a single match in front of each student.
“Right. Now we put theory into practise. Your goal is to transform this match into a needle—the more precise, the better.”
She demonstrated with a flick and a murmur.
The match gleamed, stretched, and became a slender silver needle that caught the light from the high windows.
Then she began to patrol.
Draco Malfoy fixed his eyes on his match with the intensity of someone trying to set it on fire through will alone.
He’d seen Elias in the courtyard.
He’d seen what was possible.
That should have been his moment to shine, and now he was determined to claw back some ground.
Twenty minutes later, the match remained a match.
Malfoy tapped it with his wand, harder than necessary.
It snapped.
He stared at the two pieces, then tried to push them back together with the furtive desperation of a boy who had never broken anything in his life that couldn’t be fixed by a house-elf.
Hermione worked in cycles: attempt, consult the book, attempt again.
Her brow furrowed.
Her lips moved silently.
Finally, the match began to take on a metallic sheen.
It warped into a clumsy rod, one end jutting out at something approximating a needle’s point.
She puffed out her chest.
Then she glanced at Elias’s desk.
They looked like heirlooms.
Her shoulders dropped.
She should have asked him for lessons.
She’d been so drunk on the novelty of knowing magic existed that she’d neglected the obvious advantage sitting beside her every evening.
Professor McGonagall circled back to the front, her expression carefully neutral.
She paused at Hermione’s desk, and something softened in her face.
“Miss Granger is doing very well; she’s almost there.” She held up the misshapen match-needle for the class to see.
Encouragement, doled out with surgical precision.
Then her gaze fell on Elias’s desk, and her eyes widened.
She picked up one of the silver needles and turned it over in her fingers.
“Mr. Sorenson, could you do it again?”
She handed him a fresh match.
The surrounding students stopped what they were doing.
Some stood.
A few craned their necks.
Elias nodded.
He lit the match with a flick—a tiny flame, a curl of smoke—and in the space between one heartbeat and the next, the match became a needle.
This one bore a spiral of ivy winding from eye to point.
[Transfiguration LV.3 — 956 EXP]
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
“Perfect, Mr. Sorenson!” Professor McGonagall’s smile broke through like sun after a storm.
“I’m awarding Slytherin ten points for your performance.”
She held the needle high, and Malfoy snorted.
If Elias hadn’t already known the spell, those points would have been his.
He glared at his match—now splintered into three pieces—and said nothing.
Seamus Finnigan watched Elias’s demonstration and decided it didn’t look too difficult.
He gripped his wand with the confidence of a boy who had once set a curtain on fire and considered it a success.
He jabbed the match.
Bang.
A plume of black smoke bloomed.
When it cleared, Seamus was blinking, a perfect ring of soot around his mouth, exhaling a ghost of ash.
The match was gone.
Every head turned.
“Good heavens, Mr. Finnigan! What happened?” Professor McGonagall strode forward, wand already moving.
A jet of water doused a lingering ember.
She checked him for injuries with quick, efficient hands, then straightened.
“Longbottom, please escort Mr. Finnigan to the Hospital Wing.”
Neville stood, pale but determined.
Hermione bit her lip.
“I think they might not be able to find the Hospital Wing on their own. Neville’s memory doesn’t seem very good.”
“It’s alright,” Elias said, not looking up from his needles.
“If it’s serious, Professor McGonagall will escort him herself.”
Hermione nodded, and with Elias’s quiet guidance, she returned to her match.
By the end of class, she had conjured a needle that was, if not beautiful, at least functional.
Students filed out.
Malfoy shot Elias a dark look as he passed, suspicion etched into the set of his jaw.
“Mr. Sorenson, a moment,” Professor McGonagall said.
When the door clicked shut, she turned to him.
“I wanted to ask if you studied Transfiguration extensively over the summer. Your progress is significantly faster than the others. Few third- or fourth-year students can achieve such refined transformations.”
Elias considered the question.
Lying would be simpler, but something about McGonagall’s directness made him choose otherwise.
“To be precise, I did teach myself over the summer. But I actually discovered by chance when I was seven or eight that I could shapeshift things. Before my Hogwarts letter came, I thought I was the only person in the world who knew magic.”
“You figured it out yourself?” Her eyebrows rose.
She knew his file.
Muggle-born.
“What level would you say you’re at now? Can you demonstrate?”
Elias nodded.
He thought of her opening display, the lectern into pig.
He raised his wand, focused, and the lectern rippled again.
A pink pig grunted, trotted in a small circle, then stood still.
But Elias frowned.
The pig’s eyes were dull.
Empty.
It was a perfect shape with nothing behind it.
“That’s already very good,” Professor McGonagall said, catching his dissatisfaction.
“You’ve only just started school, and your level surpasses most fourth-year students. Most of them couldn’t do what you’re doing now.”
She clasped her hands together, a rare cheerfulness in her voice.
“Because you’re progressing so quickly, you don’t need to do your Transfiguration homework this week. Just continue to practise at your own pace. If you have any questions, my office door is open.”
She would not hold back a talent like this with busywork.
And if he needed private tutoring, she would provide it gladly.
A pity the Sorting Hat hadn’t placed him in Gryffindor—she’d known at first glance he belonged there.
“No need, Professor,” Elias said after a moment’s thought.
Skipping homework now would cost him experience points.
He’d earn the right to coast when the system stopped rewarding him for the work.
Professor McGonagall’s smile deepened, even as she silently cursed the Hat again.
Elias found Hermione crouched at the corner of the stairs, a stack of books balanced on her knees.
She stood when she saw him.
“How did it go? What did she say?”
He explained as they walked.
“That’s great,” Hermione said, and the envy in her voice was so naked it was almost innocent.
Elias laughed and ruffled her hair.
“Professor McGonagall wouldn’t mind a studious young woman like you asking her questions. Besides, I can teach you too—properly, this time. No more excuses about mystery and wonder.”
“You said it!” She tilted her head, a playful challenge.
“Of course. Excluding the past ten years of pretending I didn’t know magic—when have I ever lied to you?”
“Last time! And the time before that! And the time before that!”
“…Okay, there definitely won’t be a next time.”
“It’s a deal?”
“It’s a deal!”
But as Elias turned to leave, he didn’t bother hiding the small smile that followed him out the door.
[Pride +1]