"Secondly, weight matters," Professor McGonagall said, setting the two finished assignments on opposite sides of a balance scale. The moment Roger Williams's silver needle was placed down, his side sank cleanly, and a ripple of astonishment passed through the classroom.
The young witches and wizards stared at it as though the needle had just performed magic of its own. Most of them had barely managed to make their matches look vaguely metallic, but Roger's Transfiguration had already reached the point where it could fool more than the eye.
"Transfiguration is not merely an illusion," Professor McGonagall continued, her sharp gaze sweeping over them. "At its highest levels, it alters the very nature of an object. Unfortunately, most transformations revert once the magic fades, but that, too, is part of the discipline's charm."
She gave the class a pointed look, and several students immediately straightened in their seats. "If you have not completed the exercise before the end of class, you will write a two-foot essay on the theoretical difference between appearance and essence in basic Transfiguration."
Groans were swallowed before they could escape. No one was foolish enough to complain openly in front of Professor McGonagall, especially not after she had just demonstrated exactly how far behind they were.
"Besides turning matches into needles," she added, "those who finish early may attempt to turn beetles into buttons or mice into snuffboxes."
Everyone knew who that was meant for. The extra assignments were clearly aimed at Roger and Hermione, the only two first-years who looked remotely capable of surviving them.
"This is impossible," Daphne muttered, slumping over her desk as her already messy hair stuck out like a nest of pale straw. She glanced at Roger with the hopeful despair of someone drowning in theory. "Roger, can I borrow your notes?"
"Of course." Roger pushed his notebook across the table without fuss. He had already finished the assigned work, and watching Daphne suffer over the same line for ten minutes had started to feel cruel.
"Hermione?" he asked, lifting another notebook slightly toward the girl sitting ahead of him. She was still wearing a deeply dissatisfied expression, the kind that suggested being second best offended her more than failing outright.
"What?" Hermione asked, turning around with obvious suspicion.
"I only got this far because Professor McGonagall helped me earlier," Roger said. He did admire Hermione, in his own way. She had no wizarding family behind her, no childhood lessons, no old household books, and still she was already crushing most of the students who had grown up knowing magic existed.
Hermione's expression softened despite herself. "What is that?"
"Professor McGonagall lent it to me. You can take a look."
At the front of the room, Professor McGonagall glanced in their direction. She saw the notebook change hands, but since it was her own material and the students were still working, she said nothing.
"You're being awfully generous," Hermione said, eyeing him.
"Please. What do you think I'm doing?" Roger shook his head. "Return it to me at dinner."
Hermione opened the notebook carefully, and her eyes brightened almost at once. "A Transfiguration master's notes are worth collecting, aren't they?"
"Exactly." Roger leaned back, satisfied that she understood the value of what she was holding.
"Thank you, Mr. Sleeping Beauty," Hermione said sweetly, smiling at him as she accepted the journal.
Daphne immediately burst into muffled laughter beside them. "Sleeping Beauty? What sort of nickname is that?"
"I'll tell you a secret," Hermione whispered, shielding her mouth with one hand as she leaned closer to Daphne. The two girls bent together over their desks, whispering like conspirators while Roger was unceremoniously excluded from the conversation.
"Roger, I definitely won't lose to you in Potions," Hermione declared a moment later, her competitive spirit flaring again without warning. She lifted her chin, looking as if she had just issued a formal challenge.
"Whatever makes you happy," Roger said mildly.
In truth, he had no idea why she was so determined. No matter how hard Hermione worked, Snape was not going to shower Gryffindor with points, and Roger's gaze drifted past her toward Harry and Ron with faint amusement. With those two walking point-drains in her house, Hermione could study until her eyes crossed and still watch Gryffindor bleed points every week.
"Hmph. Gryffindor won't lose to Slytherin," Hermione said, though even she sounded less certain than she wanted to.
Her frustration betrayed her. Harry and Ron had already cost Gryffindor five points on the very first day, and if that pattern continued for the rest of the year, even Hermione seemed unable to imagine how many points they might lose.
"Don't work yourself to death over it," Roger said calmly. "Just do your best."
He was not especially worried. Slytherin had won the House Cup six years in a row, but Roger suspected Dumbledore had decided long before term began that the Boy Who Lived would receive a suitably glorious ending to his first year. Roger would earn points for Slytherin when he could, but the final result would depend entirely on how shameless the old headmaster felt like being.
"Daphne, what time is it?" Roger asked.
"Look for yourself." Daphne pulled out a pocket watch and handed it to him without ceremony.
Roger looked down at the delicate little watch in his palm. It was beautifully made, the sort of thing that clearly came from a good family, and he could not help thinking that being good-looking did have its advantages if young ladies were already lending him valuables.
"I'm lending it to you," Daphne said, copying his earlier tone with shameless accuracy. Then she lowered her voice and added, "It was a gift from my mother. It means a great deal to me, you know."
Hermione laughed, and Daphne smiled with her. Just like that, the two of them shut Roger out of their private little alliance again.
"Hermione, you're amazing," Daphne said, her attention shifting completely. "You've already read through all the first-year textbooks? That's eight books, and they're all enormous."
"It's not that impressive," Hermione said, though she was clearly pleased. "I only learned it from books. The school library is huge, so I'm planning to study there after classes."
"Really? Take me with you," Daphne said at once. Her expression turned pitiful with alarming speed. "My Latin is dreadful."
"All right," Hermione agreed.
Roger took out a vial of Blue Moonlight. The potion shimmered with a brilliant silver-blue glow, and the sudden flash of color immediately drew both girls' attention.
"What kind of potion is that?" Hermione asked, curiosity overcoming her argument with him.
"Blue Moonlight," Roger replied.
The moment he finished drinking his daily dose, a familiar softness crept through his limbs. Drowsiness rose slowly and irresistibly, like warm water closing over his head, and the classroom seemed to grow distant at the edges.
"The potion you mentioned this morning?" Daphne asked. She turned toward Hermione with interest. "Have you heard of it?"
Hermione shook her head. "No. I've never seen it in our books."
"Hello?" Daphne waved a hand in front of Roger's face.
"Don't bother," Hermione said, looking at him with the calm of someone who had already seen this disaster before. "He's asleep."
"No wonder you call him Sleeping Beauty," Daphne whispered. She nudged Roger carefully, then lifted her textbook to block his head from Professor McGonagall's view.
Professor McGonagall glanced over the top of her spectacles. She noticed the suspiciously placed book and knew perfectly well that the boy behind it was no longer paying attention, but Roger had completed his work and even attempted the extra practice. After a brief, silent look, she returned to the rest of the class.
By the time class ended, Roger was still sound asleep. Chairs scraped, students packed away books, and the room emptied around him, yet he remained folded over the desk as if the noise belonged to someone else's dream.
"What do we do?" Daphne asked, tugging lightly at his sleeve. "He's still sleeping."
"I learned a special spell," Hermione said, a sly smile appearing on her face. She had already witnessed Roger sleep through half a day and clearly did not trust ordinary methods to wake him. "Watch this."
She raised her wand with great confidence. "Wingardium Leviosa!"
Roger's body slowly floated upward under the spell's effect. Hermione's confidence lasted only a few seconds before her face changed, because the strain was far greater than she expected, and the magic in her wand began to tremble.
"Oh no. He's too heavy!" she cried.
The sleeping Roger rose only a short distance before the spell wavered completely. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear watching what came next.
Bang!
Roger's forehead struck the edge of the desk with a painful thud. He jerked awake, rubbed the growing bump on his head, and opened his eyes in a dazed squint.
"What happened?" he asked groggily. "Why does my head hurt?"
"You fell over by yourself," Hermione said with impressive composure. "We helped you up."
Roger looked around and found the classroom empty except for the three of them. "Is class over?"
"If we arrive any later, there won't be any food left in the Great Hall," Daphne said.
That sentence worked better than any charm. Roger instantly came awake, swept his books into his bag, and rushed for the door.
"Then we need to go," he said.
"Wait for us!" Hermione and Daphne called behind him.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, most of the main dishes had already vanished. The Slytherin table was especially bare, because Malfoy and the others had clearly feared Roger would sweep through the platters the way he had at the opening feast, so they had finished eating early. Yesterday's feast had been extravagant, but an ordinary lunch offered nothing like that abundance.
"Roger, why don't you come to the Gryffindor table?" Hermione asked after looking at the miserable remains on Slytherin's side. She could tell at a glance that what was left would not be nearly enough for him.
"Not a good idea," Roger said.
He had already noticed the unfriendly stares from several Gryffindors. Sitting with Hermione might fill his stomach, but it would only make her more isolated in her own house, and he had no intention of causing her trouble over a plate of food.
"You two eat first," he said. "I'll go find the house-elf kitchen."
Roger silently praised Jessica's foresight. Before the school year began, she had told him where the Hogwarts kitchen was located, but the castle was still a maze to him, and knowing the destination did not mean he knew how to get there. For that, he needed someone familiar with the basement corridors.
"Susan?"
He called out to Susan Bones just as she was about to leave. The round-faced Hufflepuff girl turned back, curiosity bright in her eyes as she looked him over.
"I know you," Susan said, laughing. "Roger Williams, the boy who sleeps standing up."
Roger's expression stiffened. Apparently, his reputation had spread even faster than his appetite.
"With how much you eat, you really should have been sorted into Hufflepuff," Susan added.
"It's temporary," Roger said quickly. "Very temporary."
His performance at the opening feast had been so impressive that most of the school had already heard about it, but that was not entirely bad. At least it made starting conversations easier.
"Susan, where are the Hufflepuff dormitories?" he asked, then immediately raised both hands when her eyes widened. "Don't misunderstand. I'm looking for the house-elf kitchen."
"Oh, are you too late for lunch?" Susan glanced toward the Slytherin table, where nothing remained but a few unappealing green vegetables. Her smile turned sympathetic, and she nodded toward the lower doors. "Come with me."
Susan smiled kindly and led Roger down toward the bottom of the Great Hall.
.....
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