Hogwarts classes were a wild mix of the weird and wonderful.
There was Herbology, where you had to outsmart those cheeky Bouncing Bulb roots; History of Magic, taught by a ghost; and Potions, where one slip-up meant Snape docking points left and right.
But the class every kid loved—and secretly dreaded the most? Transfiguration, hands down.
Here, you could just let your magic rip, twisting matches into needles without a bunch of fussy steps or complicated wand flicks.
Professor McGonagall might look stern as a sphinx, but her spells had everyone hooked. Who wouldn't get a kick out of turning a teapot into an elephant with a squirting trunk? Or making a quill stand up and do a little jig?
Thing was, all that excitement didn't mean quick wins. Even Hermione, the fastest learner, had only managed a match with a needle's round head so far.
So when Sean turned a scampering rat into a snuffbox—and then back into a scampering rat—most of the kids crowded around, letting out a huge, synchronized "Whoa—"
[You've practiced an intermediate Transfiguration spell to journeyman's standards. Proficiency +100.]
Sean had underestimated his knack for Transfiguration. Just two weeks in, and he was already hitting journeyman level for intermediates.
He wasn't the only one stunned—Professor McGonagall's crow's feet softened, and behind her square glasses, a spark of pride flickered.
"Excellent, Mr. Greene—splendid Transfiguration. Five points to Ravenclaw!"
She hurried over to him, ignoring the gasps around them, her eyes fixed on Sean, who looked a bit shy from all the focus.
"After class, see me."
She said it softly.
Sean blinked, then murmured a quiet "Yes, Professor."
The lesson wrapped up fast, and the kids streamed out like a herd of Hippogriffs. Soon, it was just Sean and McGonagall in the empty room.
She studied him, the whispers from earlier still echoing in her ears:
—Rumors about some Ravenclaw racking up the most house points, supposedly double the runner-up.
The usual sharpness in her gaze melted a touch.
She'd plucked a seed from rocky soil, and now she was watching it sprout.
"Come with me, Mr. Greene."
She strode out of the Transfiguration classroom without another word.
Her office wasn't far—just off the second-floor corridor. Sean took a quick scan as he stepped through the wooden door.
Cozy little study, with a roaring fire in the grate and a window overlooking the Quidditch pitch. A bunch of kids were trickling out there already—Gryffindor and Slytherin's Flying lesson was starting soon.
"Demonstrate the Transfiguration again."
McGonagall's voice had softened without her realizing it.
Sean caught on quick—this was her cauldron, her private one.
...
By the time he left, his intermediate Transfiguration had leveled up big time, and he had a fresh notebook of notes clutched in his hand. McGonagall had cleared up his hang-ups and pointed him in the right direction: a wizard's will. Like any magic, Transfiguration bowed to emotions—strong ones like grief or shock could throw it off kilter. Even Animagi and Metamorphmagi weren't immune.
Take Tonks after Sirius's death—she couldn't keep her shifts straight. Her hair went mousy brown and stringy, her frame thinned out.
Out in the corridor.
Sean was hustling down to the dungeons. Unlike the other Ravenclaws heading to the Quidditch pitch to watch Gryffindor and the rest fly, he had his priorities straight—what he needed to do, not just what he wanted.
Hogwarts corridors at dusk felt like they'd been hit with a Slowing Charm.
Torches danced in their brackets, stretching shadows long and wild across the stones. The dozing portraits snored in steady rhythm.
Footsteps echoed through the archway, heading west, as the last sunlight vanished behind the glass. The air turned damp and heavy all at once.
A spiral staircase twisted down from a nook hidden by a tapestry, cold draft slithering up the steps like a serpent.
Sean took them with ease, his mind already spinning excuses in case he ran into Professor Snape—something to get him out unscathed.
Luckily, the coast was clear. His green eyes lit up.
He zipped to the cauldron, lit the fire, prepped the ingredients, and pulled out his notes—all in one smooth go.
He'd brewed at least ten batches of Scabies Solution by now. In his mental sims, that was more like a hundred. Every step was second nature; he could even tweak a few things.
The liquid in the cauldron bubbled with a soothing glug-glug, thick and inky green, bubbles rising and popping on the surface.
He ground dried nettles and powdered snake fangs into a fine emerald dust, adding it in stages. Each scoop ramped up the boil—
—and right then, he had to stir right three times. Half a turn off, and it'd all go pear-shaped.
But he didn't.
Magic, to Sean, was this blend of heart and head—a miracle born of will, but open to logic.
Charms had taught him that mindset mattered, but nailing the pronunciation and wand work made spells smoother.
Most kids—or even professors—didn't dig that deep. If they did, the Levitation Charm in the textbook wouldn't just say "clear pronunciation, flick and swish."
It'd break it down: What makes it clear? Swish left or right? Big arc or small flick?
Too bad the wizarding world ran on survival of the fittest.
Talented witches and wizards trusted their gut till it worked;
The rest slogged through reps, praying to Merlin for that instinct to kick in.
In Transfiguration, Sean had seen Michael flailing his wand like mad—same botched motion ten times over.
Sean? He logged his hits and misses on form and incantation, dissected the whys, ran side-by-side tests till he was wiped.
Add in some ancient hunch of his, and his progress was off the charts.
Same with Potions—that gut feel was rare, but when it hit, he grabbed it tight.
Like now: Sean adjusted his stir, leaning into the instinct, even cranking the heat a smidge.
Candle flames flickered in the dungeon, and in the shadows Sean never spotted, a pair of gloomy eyes gleamed from the dark.