The next morning, the halls of Beauxbâtons shimmered with dew-kissed light. Morning fog clung lazily to the edges of the garden paths, curling between the hedges like sleepy spirits reluctant to let go of the night. Ivy-twined columns and enchanted rose bushes glistened with silver droplets, and birdsong filtered through the high windows of the Ombrelune dormitory.
In Room 213 of the Ombrelune wing, a pale-blue mist hovered near the open window, drifting in soft, whispering coils that played gently with the lace curtains. Eira sat at her vanity, brushing her white hair in long, slow strokes. Her reflection blinked back at her, eyes still heavy with sleep, her mind adrift in the slow rhythm of morning.
Outside her room, the corridor stirred to life—slippers scuffing against polished wood, the clinking of buttons, the fluttering of satin ribbons as girls tied their cravats or adjusted their enchanted brooches. A few dreamy voices murmured about the chill in the air, the pop quizzes Professor Voclain might spring, and the Transfiguration class that morning.
Eira smoothed the collar of her sea-blue uniform and pinned the Ombrelune crest neatly beneath her shoulder. Her wand slipped into the side pocket with a familiar, comforting weight. She stacked her books—Metaphoresis: An Introduction to Transformational Magic among them—and stepped into the hallway and then out of the Ombrelune's Dorm Hall.
And there at Ombrelune's garden she saw Marin emerged from the boys dorm hall a few yards away down.
"Morning," Marin said with a yawn, as he looked like he didn't sleep well last night as he walked like a zombie .
"Morning," Eira replied with a faint smile. "Transfiguration first. Professor Corvielle."
"Oh yes," Marin perked up. "I've heard she's going to teach us one of the advanced Vera Verto variations today!"
Their footsteps echoed softly through the gallery halls. They descended through the arched walkways that led to the East Wing—one of the oldest sections of the château. Here, time seemed slower. Dustless portraits blinked from between gilded frames, and candle sconces flickered with ever-shifting colors. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the corridor, sunlight pouring through the glass in long, golden ribbons that danced on the marble tiles like liquid fire.
Room 204 was at the end of a spiraling staircase framed by carved balustrades of white stone. Above the tall double doors, a plaque shimmered in the early light:
Metaphoresis: The Alchemy of Change, the Grace of Becoming.
The doors opened with a gentle creak as they entered.
Professor Lysandra Corvielle stood at the front of the room—tall, elegant, with a cascade of raven-black hair and a long velvet robe embroidered with glimmering silver sigils. Her eyes were the color of dark violets, piercing and perceptive. She held herself with the quiet poise of someone who had long ago mastered the art of transformation—not just in magic, but in presence.
"Good morning, second-years," she greeted, her voice cool and crystalline.
"Good morning, Professor Corvielle," the class echoed, taking their seats at the crescent-shaped desks arranged around the central marble platform.
Eira slid into her seat between Marin and a dreamy-eyed boy named Lucien.
"I trust your summer allowed your magical instincts to rest and renew," Professor Corvielle continued. "Because today, we begin with one of the more elegant disciplines of Metaphoresis."
With a graceful wave of her wand, she summoned a small wooden cage. Inside it hopped a plump, golden-feathered finch, chirping curiously.
"Transfiguration," she said, "is the study of altering the essence of one form into another. This morning, you will begin learning how to apply this theory to living creatures—non-magical, harmless, and properly safeguarded by Ministry guidelines, of course."
A soft murmur swept through the class—some excited, some nervous.
"The spell," Professor Corvielle said, "is Vera Verto as you are already familiar with ."
With a flick of her wand and a lilting incantation—"Vera Verto"—a gentle shimmer enveloped the finch. Feathers folded into silk petals, wings melted into delicate stems, and in a blink, the bird had become a crystal box of wildflowers—violets, daisies, and marigolds blooming inside a glass cube.
Gasps of wonder rippled across the room.
"Note the complexity," she said. "This is not mere object conjuration. It requires a perfect harmony of intention, focus, and magical finesse. You must not only will the change—you must understand it."
She waved her wand again, and the flowers reverted back into the chirping finch, who fluttered its wings and resumed its song as if nothing had happened.
"Your task," she said, "is to attempt the transformation yourself. You'll find finches in the cages beside you. Take your time. Channel your magic through clarity and grace. For the first attempt, it is not perfection I seek, but intention."
The students opened the cages. Marin's bird was a curious brown-and-red sparrow, Eira's a slender snow-white finch with intelligent eyes.
"Ready?" Professor Corvielle asked.
They nodded.
"Begin."
The room filled with incantations, muttered and wavering.
"V-Verra Verta—"
"Vera Verto!"
"Vera… Vertu?"
Soft flashes of magic sparked and fizzled. One bird partially turned into a vase, its legs still feathered and twitching. Another became a block of marble, then spontaneously exploded into dandelions. Lucien's bird grew translucent like jelly, its feathers melting into what looked suspiciously like wet seaweed.
Eira sat still for a moment, centering herself.
She looked at her finch—calm, breathing gently. Her wand twitched slightly in her fingers.
Change, but not destruction. Grace, not force.
She took a breath, focused, and raised her wand.
"Vera Verto."
The effect was immediate.
Like water folding into ice, the bird shimmered and twisted, feathers curling into white petals, wings softening into translucent crystal. In seconds, a perfectly shaped flower box sat at the center of her desk, its lid shaped like folded wings, and inside—lilies, forget-me-nots, and snowdrops, resting as if kissed by morning dew.
The class fell into an awed hush.
Professor Corvielle turned, her expression inscrutable at first—then softening into something unmistakable.
"Miss White," she said, walking slowly toward Eira's desk. "This is… flawless."
She picked up the box gently and turned it over, inspecting it.
"The transition is seamless, the magical essence stable, and the design? Remarkable. You not only captured the spell—you refined it."
A ripple of admiration swept through the room. Even the older students occasionally heard of Corvielle praising someone this openly.
"You have a natural gift for Transfiguration," the professor said. "It is not simply spellwork—it is the understanding of essence. Most impressive."
Eira flushed slightly, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you, Professor."
Marin leaned in, whispering, "I swear, you're not human. That was like watching a poem cast a spell."
Professor Corvielle turned back to the rest of the class. "Observe Miss White's example. It is not just magic—it is intention, clarity, and control. Those of you who struggled, do not be discouraged. This is difficult magic. We will revisit it every week, refining as we go."
The rest of the period was spent with students attempting again, guided more gently this time, while Eira was asked to assist some of her classmates. She moved quietly between desks, offering a tip here, a gesture there, always calm, always careful.
After class ended, Professor Corvielle stopped Eira at the door.
"I would like to speak to you privately later this week," she said. "There are advanced lessons I believe you're ready for—if you're willing."
Eira blinked, surprised. "Of course. I'd be honored."
Professor Corvielle nodded once, approvingly. "I thought you might."
Eira stepped out into the marble hallway, where the scent of enchanted roses drifted through the stained glass windows.
Marin joined her, still gaping. "You're going to be the first student in history to turn a living dragon into a bouquet in your first class ."
Eira laughed softly. "Let's start with finches first."
"Still, I'm not surprised. You're always so focused—like magic listens to you."
"It does," Eira said thoughtfully. "If you speak with the right voice."
The two friends walked together down the sunlit corridor, their robes fluttering behind them.