"I was practicing Transfiguration..." Wyzett admitted, a little sheepish. "I happened to witness how the Devil's Snare disguises itself, and suddenly—something just clicked."
Professor McGonagall looked torn between exasperation and relief. "Practicing Transfiguration? When we saw a whole mass of Devil's Snare appear in the greenhouse, you've no idea how frantic Professor Sprout and I were!"
"I'm really sorry, Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout... I should have explained in advance." Wyzett lowered his head, his voice heavy with regret.
"This isn't your fault..." Sensing his gloom, McGonagall softened, pursing her lips. "We just got ourselves worked up with worry."
She purposefully shifted the topic, letting the earlier panic fade. "So, you're saying you can transform a Christmas cactus into Devil's Snare? Is that right?"
"Yes!" Wyzett nodded eagerly, his eyes shining. "I read The Theory of Transfiguration you recommended, and combined it with what I've observed these past weeks. That's how I managed this..."
Unable to contain his excitement, he raised his wand and pointed it at a distant Christmas cactus. "Vineaforma!"
After about ten seconds, the gently swaying Christmas cactus darkened, its leaves taking on the deep, inky green of Devil's Snare. The plant writhed and lunged toward Wyzett.
Both professors instinctively reached for their wands—only to freeze, stunned by the next scene.
The Devil's Snare clustered at Wyzett's feet, weaving itself into a platform of vines that lifted him into the air.
He raised his wand high, conducting like a maestro before an orchestra.
Under his command, the vines slithered up from his feet, wrapping him in a seamless suit of living armor.
With a flick of his wrist, the armor at his sleeve unraveled into vines once more, twisting together into a sharp cone that shot forward—crack!—exploding with force.
"Minerva..." Sprout whispered, sidling closer to McGonagall. "Would you ever teach this sort of thing to a first-year?"
"Of course not!" McGonagall's usual severity had vanished, replaced by a flush of excitement. "He figured it out himself!"
"My only advice was to have him borrow The Theory of Transfiguration from Madam Pince. Who could have guessed he'd take it this far!"
As the Transfiguration professor, she knew better than anyone just how astonishing Wyzett's magic truly was.
At Hogwarts, Transfiguration was among the most exacting of magical disciplines.
In her class, McGonagall always guided students from simple to complex, unveiling the mysteries of Transfiguration step by careful step.
For first-years, turning a matchstick into a needle, or a feather into a fan, was already impressive—basic transformations between non-living objects of the same kind.
As students advanced, they'd learn to transform living creatures, but even then, magical creatures were strictly off-limits. Those techniques didn't appear until fourth year, and even then, only the most gifted could attempt them.
What Wyzett had just done wasn't only advanced same-species transformation—it was transformation between magical creatures.
Every magical creature possessed innate magical resistance.
For a first-year to cast Transfiguration on a magical plant was, by all logic, impossible.
And yet, Wyzett had done it without any direct guidance—just through careful observation of Christmas cactus and Devil's Snare, and his own deepening understanding of The Theory of Transfiguration. He was, in every sense, self-taught.
McGonagall would never have believed such a feat possible—let alone that it could be surpassed in such a spectacular way.
But more than that, from what Wyzett had just described, McGonagall was convinced: his magical understanding had begun to bud.
This was an ancient, almost mystical concept—something no teacher could give, something only a wizard could build for themselves.
Having your own magical understanding was the key to going further, to glimpsing the true wonders of magic.
The earlier that spark ignited, the more likely a witch or wizard was to leave their mark on magical history.
Just like dueling champion Alberta Toothill, giant-slayer Gifford Ollerton, or sea serpent-killer Glanmore Peakes...
Wyzett flicked his wand again. The Devil's Snare slowly drew back, shrinking until it was once again just a Christmas cactus.
He floated gently to the ground, pointing at the cactus with excitement. "Professor McGonagall, this is the Transfiguration technique I've developed!"
"Absolutely brilliant!" Sprout beamed, clapping her hands in delight.
McGonagall narrowed her eyes at the cactus. "The Christmas cactus hasn't changed…"
Sprout blinked in confusion. "Minerva, what do you mean, it hasn't changed?"
Years immersed in Herbology left her unable to immediately grasp the deeper meaning behind McGonagall's words.
"Exactly!" Wyzett nodded, pride swelling in his voice. "Its essence hasn't changed! I only cast magic over its surface!"
He glanced at the cactus, searching for the right words to explain. "It's like putting on clothes... The person inside doesn't change, but with a different outfit, everyone's impression shifts!"
"I dressed the Christmas cactus in the 'clothes' of Devil's Snare, so it became Devil's Snare! But take off the outfit, and it's a cactus again!"
"Wyzett, I understand exactly what you mean!" McGonagall took a deep breath, steadying her voice. "You are, without doubt, the most gifted student I have ever taught!"
Wyzett blushed, stumbling over his words. "I still have so much to learn... Professor Sprout's been willing to help me too..."
"And I was just lucky—today was the day I learned about Devil's Snare and discovered its connection with the Christmas cactus."
"Indeed," McGonagall agreed, nodding thoughtfully. "Very lucky, indeed."
Talent could never be forced. Wyzett called himself 'lucky,' and there was nothing wrong with that.
But being able to seize that luck, to keep learning and improving—that was what made him truly remarkable.
Wyzett tucked his notes back into his notebook, planning to say goodbye to the professors before heading to the Great Hall for dinner.
After a long day, his stomach growled in protest.
He released the Custodis Meditatio and Oculus Magicae, letting the world return to its familiar, ordinary state.
But in the very next instant, the world spun around him—even the two professors seemed to be whirling.
He didn't even have time to think before collapsing.
Just before he lost consciousness, he heard the startled cries of McGonagall and Sprout, and felt himself land on something soft, like a cushion...
~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~
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