The day went on as normally as it could. During Professor Snape's class, I noticed that Lucian seemed to have a natural talent for the craft.
I could handle most of the school's potion curriculum without much trouble thanks to my training with my grandfather, but Lucian did it almost instinctively—which, of course, earned several points for his house from Snape.
After Potions, I headed off to Transfiguration with the other Gryffindors. Slytherin didn't have this class with us, so I had to say goodbye to Lucian for now.
"Are those guys going to follow you around all day ?" I asked, leaning against the wall across from Professor McGonagall's classroom.
The entire time we'd been together, a group of Slytherins had trailed him wherever he went—a mix of first-years and upperclassmen—who looked at me like they'd just smelled something foul every time I glanced their way.
"I've already tried to get them to stop. They won't give up. Something about making sure I have the 'right kind of friends,' " Lucian said with a sigh.
"By 'right kind' you mean only Slytherins with their noses stuck up each other's arses ?" I asked with a smirk.
He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a fifth-year student from the group behind him.
"What did you say, Gryffindor ?! Think you can talk about us like that ?!" said the fifth-year, a black-haired boy with crooked teeth.
"Well, if the shoe fits. And why are you even mad ? You weren't supposed to be listening to our conversation. This isn't your business," I replied, arms crossed and wearing a tired expression.
"Anything involving Lucian is our business. We have to make sure people like you don't put the wrong ideas in his head !" he said, stepping closer and poking me in the chest.
"People like me ? What exactly do you mean by that, random person I don't know ? Besides, I think Lucian can make his own decisions without you kissing his boots," I said, straightening my posture, clearly irritated.
"My name is Marcus Flint, and you should start showing me some respect if you want to keep attending this school, brat !" he snapped, trying to shove me—only to realize I hadn't moved an inch.
"Go to hell with your respect," I said calmly, unfazed.
That seemed to piss him off even more, as I saw him begin to pull his wand from his sleeve with the clear intent to attack.
"Enough, Marcus ! I didn't ask you to do this. I'm perfectly capable of making my own choices, and I believe it's time for first-year Herbology. So if you could stop making me late, I'd appreciate it,"
Lucian said, stepping between us. He was visibly annoyed—likely from being treated like he wasn't even there.
Marcus looked like he wanted to argue, but with a quick glance behind me, he changed his mind. Over my shoulder, I spotted Professor McGonagall walking toward the classroom at the end of the hallway.
"So, Marcus Shit, you still wanna go ?" I asked with a condescending smile.
With a grunt, he and the rest of the Slytherins scattered, each heading off to their own classes.
"Take care, Aurelius. I can't keep my eyes on them all the time," Lucian said with a sigh.
"Don't worry. I've faced worse than them," I waved it off.
"I hope you're right. See you," he said, giving me a faint smile before leaving me at the classroom door.
"Mr. Gryffindor, I believe it's time you entered the classroom," came a wise voice from behind me. Turning around, I found none other than the formidable Professor Minerva McGonagall.
"Of course, Professor. Apologies for the commotion," I said respectfully, then stepped inside.
—––
As I entered Professor McGonagall's classroom, the corridor's noise vanished as if a magical barrier had sealed the doorway. The room was austere, desks aligned neatly, sunlight from tall windows casting sharp shadows across the stone floor. The professor walked to the front with her usual impeccable posture—like even gravity gave her more respect than it gave others.
"Today," she said firmly, "we will practice one of the fundamentals of Transfiguration: turning a matchstick into a needle. A simple exercise, but one that will require precision, concentration, and above all, patience. Don't expect perfect results on your first attempt."
"The incantation is Ferroacicula. Try working in pairs—two minds work better than one."
I took my seat and was paired with a Hufflepuff girl. She was short, with dark hair tied in a loose bun, and she looked at me like I'd just committed some crime against her existence. As I sat down, she muttered under her breath something that sounded like, "Great. Now this."
"Hi," I tried with a smile, hoping to break the ice. "I'm Aurelius."
She just gave me a dry look. "Mavis," she said flatly, turning back to glare at the matchstick on the desk as if it had insulted her family.
I took a deep breath and focused on my own matchstick. The trick wasn't brute force or raw will—it was subtlety. My grandfather said magic was like a dance: you lead with grace or trip over your own feet. I touched my wand to the match and whispered:
[ Ferroacicula ]
A soft blue glow shimmered, and the match began to change. The wood lengthened, lost its rough texture, and gained a sleek, silver surface—sharp and slender. But I didn't stop there. With a careful gesture, I focused the leftover energy into detail. A tiny crest formed at the top of the needle—a lion mid-roar, so small it was barely visible without squinting.
"All done," I murmured, admiring the result with a small smile.
Beside me, Mavis huffed. Her matchstick had lengthened unevenly, the tip a little bent, and it still retained the yellowish hue of wood. She glanced at my needle with a mixture of shock and frustration.
"How did you do that ?" she asked—not exactly friendly, but clearly surprised.
"I practiced a lot," I said with a shrug. "My grandfather trained me in precision magic. And I like giving things a personal touch."
She picked up the needle and examined it more closely. "You carved a lion crest. Into a needle. With Transfiguration. On the first day."
"Yes ?"
"That's annoying," she muttered, though she seemed more impressed than genuinely annoyed.
"Thanks... I think ?" I said, chuckling a little.
She looked at the needle again and, despite herself, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. Almost imperceptible—but it was there.
Professor McGonagall moved through the rows, observing the results. When she reached our table, her eyes narrowed briefly at the sight of the needle.
"Mr. Gryffindor," she said, inspecting the piece carefully, "your execution was flawless. Adding personalized detail shows an advanced level of control… and a certain degree of overconfidence. But impressive nonetheless."
"Thank you, Professor," I replied, trying not to sound smug.
Honestly, there wasn't much in Transfiguration that I hadn't already mastered.
Ever since I learned the principles from my grandfather, it felt almost natural—like an extension of my own thoughts.
There were still limits, of course. My grandfather was always very clear about that. Animagus transformations, for instance, were strictly off-limits. According to him, a careless wizard might end up half owl, half miserable—and he never smiled when he said it.
That was the same day he told me—completely serious—that creatures like the Minotaur or Medusa from Greek mythology were actually the result of botched transfigurations.
"There's nothing more dangerous than playing god with a mirror in your hand," he used to say. And I took that to heart.
With that in mind—and no real challenge left in the transformed matchstick—I turned my attention to my partner: Mavis.
She was still glaring at her match as if she might strangle it with her eyes. The thing looked more like a crooked toothpick than anything else. Still, she kept trying, tongue between her teeth, brow furrowed, gripping her wand like it was responsible for all her life's problems.
"Want some help ?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
"No," she replied immediately. Then, after a beat, muttered reluctantly, "Maybe."
I leaned a little closer to the table. "You're trying to force the wand to do what you want. But Transfiguration isn't about force. It's about intent. You have to visualize not just the end shape, but the transformation itself. Like molding clay."
She gave me a sideways glance, suspicious. "You sound like a self-help book."
"Better than sounding like a Potions manual," I shot back with a half-smile.
She rolled her eyes, but let out a small laugh before turning back to the task.
"Okay… clay. With finesse, then."
This time, she took a deep breath, adjusted her grip, and said more clearly:
[ Ferroacicula ]
The matchstick trembled. A faint glow traveled along its length and, for a moment, it almost—almost—turned into a proper needle. Still not perfect, but definitely better than before.
"Did I mess it up ?" she asked, frowning.
"No. That was great. Improving in Transfiguration is like sharpening a blade—you don't do it with force, you do it with patience."
She stared at the result, a little surprised, like she was seeing something rare—not the matchstick, but the fact that she was starting to get it.
"Thanks… Aurelius, right ?"
I nodded.
"You're still annoyingly good at this, but… thanks anyway," she said, now with a faint, honest smile.
"You'll get the hang of it. I saw the change starting. Just needs a few more tries."
"Or maybe a grandfather like yours," she muttered.
"Yeah, that helps too," I replied with a laugh.
In that moment, I realized I might not be the only one carrying complicated stories or family expectations. And for some reason, that made me like Mavis a little more—even with all the grumpiness and sarcasm included.
The class went on, and even though I had already finished my exercise, I ended up helping two or three other nearby students. When McGonagall gave the final instructions, I saw Mavis tucking away her slightly crooked needle with a satisfied look—maybe for the first time.
As we left the classroom, she stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder.
"Hey… don't think we're friends now just because you helped me, okay ?"
"Of course," I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. "That would be a scandal—imagine, a Hufflepuff seen with a Gryffindor."
"Exactly," she said, but there was a playful gleam in her eyes before she disappeared down the corridor.
Transfiguration had definitely gotten more interesting.