The sensation of casting Transfiguration was nothing short of extraordinary.
With the incantation as his guide, Wyzett felt his consciousness flow over the matchstick's surface, as if his mind had become a pair of hands, molding and shaping the wood at will.
It was oddly familiar—like being transported back to childhood, kneading clay with nimble fingers.
A clear goal.
In his mind's eye, a silver needle shimmered. He directed his intent, and the match began to stretch and sharpen under his will.
But it needed more detail…
He focused, replicating every nuance of a real needle.
A gleaming metallic sheen… a tip as fine as a hair… and, of course, the tiny eye for threading…
The matchstick on the desk shifted and changed, its edges softening, the red and wood tones fading away.
A metallic luster grew ever brighter. The matchstick's form lengthened, its end narrowing into a razor-sharp point…
"Wait, you did it on your first try?" Anthony stared at his own match in disbelief, then at Wyzett's. "That's ridiculously fast!"
Professor McGonagall nodded in approval, echoing Anthony's praise.
Transfiguration demanded more than caution—it required patience and imagination in equal measure.
Wyzett had started by closing his eyes, visualizing the result before making a move—a mark of true caution.
Professor McGonagall watched the transformation unfold step by step, each change deliberate and precise, never rushed. That was patience.
But Wyzett hadn't stopped yet; clearly, the spell wasn't finished.
At the tip of the needle, a perfect threading eye appeared, and delicate patterns began to etch themselves along its surface.
Professor McGonagall leaned in, eyes narrowing. Mistletoe patterns—subtle, elegant, unmistakable.
That finishing touch elevated the needle from a mere household object to something far more valuable.
To conjure such intricate designs with sheer force of will—that was the power of a wizard's imagination.
She held the needle aloft, her voice ringing out across the classroom. "Mr. Lovegood has completed the spell—he's successfully transformed a matchstick into a silver needle! Five points to Ravenclaw!"
Heads snapped up, all eyes turning to her.
Engorgio! With a flick of her wand, the tiny needle swelled, growing longer and thicker until it became a beautifully carved awl.
She held it high for all to see. "Take a look, everyone. This is an exemplary piece of Transfiguration! Not only did Mr. Lovegood create the eye of the needle, he added exquisite patterns as well!"
"Not just a needle, but with patterns too…" Anthony gave Wyzett a hearty slap on the shoulder. "You're making the rest of us look bad!"
Finite Incantatem! The awl shrank back to its original size. "Well done, Wyzett!" said Professor McGonagall.
"Thank you!" Wyzett accepted the needle, but a question struck him. "Professor McGonagall, is this needle now wood or metal?"
"A fascinating question." Professor McGonagall smiled. "You've only changed the appearance, so it's still wood at its core."
Wyzett pressed further. "Through Transfiguration, can you change the match's essence—make it a real silver needle?"
"You can," Professor McGonagall replied patiently, "but I strongly advise against it. That's where the true danger of Transfiguration lies."
"For inanimate objects, altering their essence might simply make them sturdier or more useful. But what if you changed your own essence?"
"If your body became steel, your very nature would have to become steel too. Your original self—your essence—would be lost."
"Lost?" Wyzett's mouth fell open. A shiver ran down his spine.
Seeing his unease, Professor McGonagall nodded gently. "That's what essence is. To me, a wizard's essence comes from their thoughts and desires—their soul."
"If your body is strengthened but your soul is replaced, are you still you? If not, then who are you? These are questions you must consider."
"The soul is a mysterious thing. To truly explore the secrets of magic, you must deepen your understanding of the soul."
"Many witches and wizards have gone astray here, becoming Dark wizards who delight in tampering with souls…" She paused, shaking her head. "I may have said too much."
"Just remember: to go further in Transfiguration, you must recognize and preserve your essence. If you're interested, look up 'Animagus' in the library."
Her words went far beyond the standard curriculum, but Wyzett found them invaluable.
The magical world was a vast treasure trove—there were so many secrets waiting to be discovered!
He hurriedly pulled out his notebook, scribbling down every word.
There was still plenty of class left, and soon a crowd of students gathered around, eager for advice on Transfiguration.
Wyzett was generous with his knowledge, sharing every insight he had.
He believed that helping others with their questions only deepened his own understanding.
"Don't be so hard on yourself. Try sharpening just one end of the match—take it step by step."
"See? The color's starting to fade—that's a good sign. Changing the color first is a great way to start!"
"No need to be so tense. Hold your wand a little farther away. The explosion was just a fluke. If you're nervous, you can break off the red phosphorus tip. The important thing is to try…"
Watching Wyzett surrounded by eager classmates, Professor McGonagall let out a quiet sigh.
She couldn't help but envy Professor Flitwick—how had such a remarkable student chosen Ravenclaw?
Of course, Hermione was quite talented as well. She'd managed to give her matchstick the rough shape of a needle.
But the poor girl struggled with social graces—her answers always sounded a bit like a lecture.
Now Professor McGonagall understood why Dumbledore admired Wyzett so much.
To develop such a calm, unpretentious temperament, able to connect with others so easily, especially after enduring so much at the hands of Dark wizards—that was no small feat.
Wyzett even seemed to have a talent for Occlumency. To unlock that potential, who would Dumbledore choose as his guide?
Hogsmeade Village
Dumbledore stepped from the flames, materializing on the second floor of the Hog's Head Inn.
Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed up the stairs.
A tall, thin old man with a long, graying beard appeared before him.
The old man raised his eyebrows, his voice gruff. "What are you doing here?"
Dumbledore replied softly, "Aberforth, I'd like to ask you for a favor."
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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