The five points Evelyn earned for Slytherin did not, as she suspected, win her any friends. What it did was change the quality of the silence around her. The dismissive quiet was gone, replaced by a tense, watchful silence. She had proven she wasn't an idiot. To the Slytherin first-years, this somehow made her even more dangerous.
They left the dungeons for their next class, Transfiguration.
If the dungeons were a place for secrets and plotting, the Transfiguration classroom was a place for pristine, exacting science. Sunlight, a rare and welcome sight, streamed through immense arched windows, illuminating millions of dancing dust motes and casting a warm glow over the orderly rows of desks. The air smelled clean, like parchment and potential, a stark contrast to the damp stone and lake water of the Slytherin common room. On shelves lining the walls sat the fascinating results of past lessons, a silent gallery of magical triumphs and errors: a teapot that had sprouted elegant white feathers, a collection of teacups with twitching mouse legs, and a particularly grumpy-looking cushion that seemed to be halfway to becoming a badger.
At the front of the room stood Professor Minerva McGonagall. Her posture was so severe it seemed to defy gravity, and her gaze was as sharp as the point of a needle. In her presence, Evelyn felt the familiar classroom dynamic click into place—a mix of fear and deep respect. This was a teacher who did not suffer fools.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," McGonagall began, her voice crisp and devoid of any warmth. It cut through the students' low chatter like a spell. "It is a discipline that requires focus, precision, and above all, respect for the forces you are attempting to command. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
With a flick of her wand so swift and economical it was barely a motion, she transformed the solid oak desk before her into a living, snorting pig. The pig grunted, its curly tail twitching, before another flick returned it to its original, inanimate state. The class, a mix of Slytherins and Ravenclaws, let out a collective gasp of awe. Even Evelyn, who knew the theory behind the spell, was impressed by the flawless execution. It was the work of a true master.
Their own task, by comparison, was insultingly simple. A single matchstick lay on each student's desk.
"Your task today," said McGonagall, "is to turn this matchstick into a needle. A simple, inanimate-to-inanimate transformation. Do not proceed until you have achieved a perfect, sharp point. You may begin."
A low murmur filled the room as students opened their textbooks. Evelyn didn't need to. She closed her eyes for a moment, accessing the vast library of knowledge in her mind. Match-to-Needle Transfiguration. Required intent: molecular restructuring, mass conservation with density increase. Verbal component: 'Mutare Acus'. Somatic component: sharp, jabbing motion, precise termination. It was a tutorial-level spell, the magical equivalent of learning to walk.
A flicker of her old gamer arrogance surfaced. This would be easy. She would produce a perfect needle, reaffirming her quiet competence, and spend the rest of the class analyzing the magical potential of her classmates. She picked up her standard-issue 11-inch willow wand. It felt flimsy, like a cheap plastic controller, but it would have to do.
Focusing her intent, she visualized the matchstick's molecules compressing, its fibrous, organic structure shifting into a tight, crystalline lattice of steel. She pictured the point sharpening to a microscopic tip, the head of the needle smooth and perfectly formed. She performed the sharp, jabbing motion and spoke the incantation, her voice a quiet, confident whisper. "Mutare Acus."
The matchstick on her desk trembled. A wave of silvery light washed over it, and it began to elongate and thin. But something was wrong. The transformation felt... sluggish. The energy she was channeling through the wand felt fuzzy, like a corrupted data packet. When the light faded, the object on her desk was not a needle. It was a long, pitted piece of dull grey metal, vaguely needle-shaped but with a tip as blunt as a crayon and a texture like rough stone.
It was a failure. An undeniable, embarrassing failure.
Across the room, Liam Finch, the curious Ravenclaw, had produced a similarly bent and useless result. Malfoy's had simply turned a sickly yellow color. But Evelyn wasn't comparing herself to them. She was comparing herself to the perfect image in her mind, the one her max-level knowledge demanded.
The first crack appeared in her icy composure. It was a hairline fracture of pure, unadulterated frustration. She took a deep breath, pushing the emotion down. Analysis, she commanded herself. The theory was correct. The incantation was flawless. The wand movement was precise. The failure was not with the user. It was the hardware.
Her wand was a bottleneck. It couldn't handle the clarity and power of her intent. It was like trying to channel a river through a garden hose. The willow wood and unicorn hair core were designed for safety and predictability, for a child's magic. Her magic wasn't a child's.
"Not bad, Miss Rosier," she heard McGonagall say nearby, and she saw Cassia holding up a sharp, if slightly dark-colored, needle.
Evelyn's jaw tightened. She would not be outdone. She would force the issue.
She picked up her wand again, this time pouring more of her raw magical power into the spell. She didn't just guide the magic; she shoved it through the wand, trying to overwhelm its limitations with sheer force. She jabbed the air again, her motion sharp with frustration. "Mutare Acus!"
The result was spectacular. The matchstick glowed with an intense white light, let out a high-pitched scream, and shot off the desk like a tiny rocket. It ricocheted off the stone wall with a loud PING, bounced off a suit of armor with a CLANG, and finally clattered to a stop near the front of the classroom, leaving a trail of acrid smoke in its wake. It was still, unmistakably, a matchstick.
The room fell silent. Every eye was on her.
"Miss Evelyn!" McGonagall's voice was as sharp as the needle Evelyn had failed to create. Her lips were pressed into a thin, white line of disapproval. "Control yourself! This is a classroom, not a dueling ring. Perhaps you should spend less time demonstrating advanced knowledge in Potions and more time mastering the absolute basics of spellcasting. Ten points from Slytherin for your reckless display."
From across the room, Malfoy let out a loud, braying laugh. "See? Told you she was a cheat. Can't even do a simple first-year spell!"
The mockery, the stern reprimand from a teacher she respected, the frustrating limpness of her own power—it all coalesced into a single, cold, hard thought that crystallized in her mind with the force of a revelation.
This is unacceptable.
She sat perfectly still, her face a mask of stone, ignoring the whispers and the stares. But inside, a fire had been lit. The main quest of the canon plot, the political maneuvering of the houses, it all faded into the background. A new, more urgent mission burned in its place.
She had to upgrade her gear. And she had to do it now.