Transfiguration class was a quiet and disciplined affair. Professor Minerva McGonagall, with her severe bun and sharp gaze, ran her lessons like a finely-tuned orchestra—strict, focused, and impeccably efficient. Today was no exception as she stood before the board, wand in hand, scribbling out complex diagrams for advanced transfiguration, her voice crisp and authoritative, cutting through the morning quiet.
"And this, class, is how one begins the transformation of water into a temporary solid-state barrier without freezing, maintaining its fluidity beneath the surface for rapid reabsorption. A tricky bit of transmutation, requiring precise control over ambient magical currents, but highly effective in defensive scenarios, particularly against high, sudden magical impacts." She tapped the board with her wand, the chalk dust puffing softly, a tiny cloud of white against the black.
She paused and turned toward the class, her eyes sweeping over the rows of attentive students, assessing their comprehension. "Now then, can anyone tell me what happens to the structural integrity of magically solidified water when affected by ambient magical discharge, particularly a sudden burst, such as a magical explosion or a powerful offensive spell?"
A few heads tilted in thought, quills hovered over parchment, hesitant. Then, to the collective astonishment of the class, a hand rose from the very back, a hand that had not been visible for days, seemingly appearing from thin air.
"Yes… You, Mister Potter," she said before realizing what she just said, who she just saw.
Her eyes, usually so sharp and perceptive, narrowed slightly, a flicker of disbelief crossing her features before she masked it with decades of practiced composure. A desperate hope that her eyes were not deceiving her.
Snap.
Every single head in the room snapping toward him with such synchrony that it felt like a ripple of thunder, a collective gasp of disbelief that sucked all the air from the room. Students stared at him as if he'd just materialized through the wall, their jaws agape, eyes wide with utter shock. Whispers broke out like a sudden flurry of agitated bees, a low, buzzing hum of incredulity and confusion.
Harry stood up, calm, a picture of polite attentiveness, as if he hadn't been the subject of a school-wide manhunt for the past few days. "Well, Professor, the structure of such a barrier would typically—"
McGonagall herself blinked, her formidable composure momentarily cracking, her lips thinning into a white line. She began marching toward him, her robes swishing with an almost predatory grace, her expression a dangerous mixture of profound relief and incandescent fury. Her mind raced, trying to reconcile the boy standing before her with the frantic, fruitless search that had consumed the castle.
"Mister Potter," she said sharply, her voice taut with barely contained emotion, a tremor of suppressed rage. "When did you enter this classroom? And more importantly, where in Merlin's name have you been?! Do you have any idea of the chaos your absence has caused?!"
Harry looked genuinely puzzled, a faint crease appearing between his brows, feigning innocence perfectly. "What do you mean, Professor? I've been here since the beginning of class. I arrived with everyone, just like always. I even saw you walk in."
A few students gasped, a collective intake of breath, some covering their mouths to stifle shocked exclamations. Ron, who had been staring at Harry as if he were a ghost, dropped his quill with a clatter, his face pale. Hermione paled further, her eyes wide, the implications of Harry's casual, audacious lie..
"You've been where, Mister Potter?!" McGonagall hissed, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, her eyes blazing with a fury that promised dire consequences, a silent threat of painful transfigurations. "No one's seen you for days! You vanished after breakfast days ago! Not a teacher, not a ghost, not even the portraits have seen you since! We've had the entire castle searching for you, sending out patrols, casting every detection spell imaginable! And now you're telling me that you have been here all along."
Her words were low, as she stared at this adacious boy, did he really just tell her such an obvious lie. She could help be both amazed and outraged.
She watched as his face went through a rapid range of expressions—initial confusion, then a dawning realization that shifted into a sheepish, almost apologetic grin, a perfect mimicry of the young boy she had used to catch with all his pranks long ago.
"Ohhh... so that's what happened. My apologies, Professor. I didn't realize that the spell I was the reason for such a fuss," he said, like that was supposed to explain everything.
She narrowed her eyes, her gaze piercing, unwavering. "Explain yourself, Mister Potter. And do not try my patience further. I am in no mood for your games."
He scratched the back of his head, feigning a clumsy innocence, though his eyes held a hidden spark of amusement, a knowing glint. She could remember his father doing the same thing long ago.
"Well, Professor, a few days ago I was in the library after leaving my friends for a walk—y'know, just to cool off after Umbridge's… unpleasantness in class—and I found this weird, old book. It had a spell in it… Something about making yourself 'safe' from unwanted attention, a sort of advanced concealment charm. I didn't read it too carefully, I admit, just skimmed the instructions, it was late, and it sounded useful. I gave it a try. Next thing I know, people started ignoring me."
He let out a small laugh, like it was supposed to be funny, before he continued.
"Honestly, I thought Ron and Hermione were angry at me for something before I realized it was like I wasn't there at all, like I was a ghost. Guess I accidentally cast some kind of super-effective notice-me-not charm on myself or something. I tried looking at the book again, but couldn't find it, but I did remember that it was just a temporary effect, so I was just enjoying the peace and quiet until it wore off, honestly."
The room was dead silent, every student and even a few of the more curious ghosts hanging on his every word, utterly captivated by the audacious tale.
The look on McGonagall's face was somewhere between utter disbelief, exasperation, and a murderous intent that promised a very painful death. Her lips were a thin, white line, pressed so tightly they seemed to disappear. The sheer audacity of the lie, delivered with such a straight face, was almost admirable.
"Do you expect us to believe that, Mister Potter?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft, laced with an ominous calm that promised retribution.
"Of course not, Professor," he replied with the most innocent face he could manage, his eyes wide and guileless, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. "It sounds rather preposterous, doesn't it? Even to me."
She took a step closer, her shadow falling over him, her presence imposing. "Do you take me for a fool, Mister Potter? Do you think I was born yesterday?"
Harry gave a tiny, apologetic shrug, his lips twitching with suppressed mirth. "No, never, professor, you don't look it at all."
Gasps broke out across the classroom, louder this time, a collective intake of shocked breath. Dean Thomas covered his mouth, stifling a hysterical laugh. Hermione, in her shock, dropped her ink bottle, sending a black stain blooming across her parchment, utterly mortified. McGonagall's left eyebrow twitched with dangerous, almost violent, precision, a clear sign of her barely contained fury reaching its breaking point.
"You—!" she began, her face reddening, her wand hand twitching, then stopped herself, clamping her mouth shut with a visible effort. She took a long, shuddering breath, clearly resisting the overwhelming urge to transfigure him into a desk lamp, or perhaps a particularly ugly, pink toad. "Detention, Mister Potter. Tonight. My office. Eight o'clock sharp. And this time, you will attend. I will personally escort you if necessary."
"What?!" Harry protested, feigning outrage, his voice rising in indignation. "But I've been in class! I've been learning! I've been a model student, Professor! I even answered your question!"
"There's no proof of that, Mister Potter," she snapped, her voice still tight with suppressed rage, her eyes narrowed to slits. "Your presence has been… ephemeral, at best. For all I know, you've been gallivanting around the Forbidden Forest, communing with centaurs, or worse."
Harry calmly reached into his bag, pulling out a neatly rolled parchment, a triumphant glint in his eye. "Actually, Professor, I submitted last week's Transfiguration assignment, the one on animating inanimate objects. You graded it. See?"
He handed it over, his smirk barely hidden.
McGonagall all but snatched it from his hands, her hand trembling slightly, and unrolled it, squinting down at the margin. Her handwriting. Her meticulous scoring. Her precise, efficient cursive comments criticizing his slightly too-aggressive animation of a teapot. It was undeniably hers, her distinctive script, her particular choice of ink.
"That's… that's my marking," she whispered, her voice laced with utter bewilderment, her eyes wide with disbelief, staring at the parchment as if it had just insulted her mother, sprouted legs, and danced a jig. The evidence was irrefutable, yet completely impossible given his supposed absence. How could he have submitted an assignment if he wasn't there?
Harry watched her with a hidden grin, enjoying the spectacle of her logical mind grappling with the illogical. Truly, he had fallen in love with his Authority over dream and reality.
She snapped the parchment shut with a sharp crack and handed it back, her expression a mask of strained composure. "Very well. Your attendance, however… remains suspect. But you still have detention, Mister Potter."
He blinked, genuinely confused this time. "Why?!"
"For casting an unknown spell from an unapproved library source unsupervised, from a book, no doubt from the restricted area, Mister Potter," she stated, her voice clipped, finding a new, undeniable reason. "And for causing undue panic and disruption throughout the school with your… vanishing act."
"…Fair enough," Harry conceded, a slight, amused sigh escaping him. He couldn't argue with that, even if the panic had been unintended, he really didn't think they would search for him like that.
When dobby came to him telling him about the search he asked dobby to use his clothes to feign his shape just enough to be seen but never caught, close but far and that little beautiful elf had pulled it off so well, when he got back into the castle he just used an illusion to pass everyone and decided to just pretend he had been there. Why? Why not.
Not everything has to be some complex Aizen level planning.
She walked back to the front of the class, clearly rattled and annoyed but hiding it beneath decades of practiced composure, her shoulders stiff. She cleared her throat, her gaze sweeping over the now-silent, wide-eyed students. "Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, ambient magical discharge…"
As she resumed the lesson, her voice regaining its usual crispness, Harry leaned back in his chair, catching the wide-eyed stares of half the class.
Elsewhere…
Tonks sat in the Hogwarts courtyard, perched on a stone bench beneath a sprawling oak tree, her fingers playing restlessly with the edge of her sleeve as her thoughts circled relentlessly, unable to settle. The cool, crisp air did little to calm the turmoil in her mind.
She couldn't stop thinking about what Harry had said, his blunt opinion of Remus Lupin.
She liked Remus. She really did. He was kind, thoughtful, sharp-witted, possessing a quiet strength and a deep, empathetic understanding that drew her in.
A bit too quiet for her taste, perhaps, too prone to brooding, but that just made his rare smiles all the more rewarding, like glimpsing sunshine on a cloudy day. He was a good man, she truly believed that.
But Harry… had a point. A painfully sharp, undeniable point that had burrowed deep into her thoughts and refused to leave.
Remus was always pulling back. Every time things seemed to progress, even slightly, even a hint of intimacy, he retreated, putting up invisible walls. Whenever she hinted, nudged, teased, or outright flirted, expressing her clear interest… he deflected, changed the subject, or disappeared entirely, retreating into his shell, using his condition as a shield.
Harry's words haunted her, echoing in her mind with a chilling clarity.
'I don't mean to offend the man, but Remus is a coward.'
She sighed heavily, a frustrated sound, her arms folding tightly across her chest. The truth, as Harry had delivered it, was harsh, but undeniable.
Harry might have been blunt, even cruel in his delivery, some would say, but he hadn't been wrong. Remus always used his condition as an excuse, a convenient shield to avoid anything and everything. Always refused help, even when it was freely offered. Always refused happiness, pushing it away even when it was within his grasp.
Tonks had always thought it was selflessness, a noble sacrifice to protect her from his lycanthropy. But maybe, just maybe, it wasn't selflessness at all. Maybe it was fear. Fear of intimacy, fear of being truly seen, fear of the responsibility of love.
She stood abruptly, brushing her coat free of dust and stray leaves, her resolve hardening. The time for subtle hints and patient waiting was over.
It was time to stop wondering. It was time to stop allowing him to dictate the terms of their unspoken relationship.
If he wasn't going to come out to face her, she would force the issue. She was tired of dancing around it, tired of his evasions.
She was going to find the mutt, wherever he was hiding, and finally ask him flat-out what they were, what he wanted from her, and if he didn't answer properly, if he tried to retreat again, well…
She still had a few hexes memorized from her Auror training that were particularly unpleasant. And she wasn't afraid to use them.
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