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Chapter 53 — Lessons in Transfiguration
Draco Malfoy had never imagined that his Hogwarts career would begin with two detentions in less than twenty-four hours.
Perhaps even Professor McGonagall would have to coordinate with Professor Snape just to schedule them properly.
"Yes, I'm sorry, Professor…" Darren mumbled quickly, stepping aside with an embarrassed expression.
He couldn't stop thinking about how he'd just been petting the Professor's head a moment ago.
Professor McGonagall, however, only shook her head. Her sharp eyes softened.
"It's quite all right, Mr. Potter," she said kindly. "You're always such a likeable boy. For your courage—Slytherin, fifty points. Now, take your seat."
Darren smiled shyly and found an empty desk.
But as soon as he sat down, the rest of the Slytherin students subtly shifted away from him — desks scraping quietly across the floor until a small empty circle formed around him.
Professor McGonagall's gaze flickered with something like pain.
How on earth did this boy end up in Slytherin?
She didn't know what he'd been through the night before, but it broke her heart to see him so isolated. The Sorting Hat did work in mysterious ways… though sometimes, she thought grimly, it seemed to have a rather cruel sense of humor.
If Darren had been sorted into Gryffindor, she was sure he'd be surrounded by new friends already — the same way Harry had been.
She sighed quietly.
Perhaps she should have a word with Harry.
An older brother shouldn't turn his back on family over something so small.
Darren, meanwhile, didn't notice her expression.
He had just opened his Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration when a familiar ding echoed in his mind.
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[Ding! Would the Host like to spend 500 Holy Father Points to instantly master this subject?]
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"Ah… what now?" Darren thought helplessly.
Does the system just not want me to study?
Is it trying to keep me focused on being a good person instead of wasting time on homework?
He hesitated, then shrugged. He had over 900 Holy Father Points left — if he hadn't spent that 1,000 last night, he'd be nearly at 2,000 by now.
"Fine," he muttered internally. "Let's test this."
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[Confirm: Spend 500 Points.]
[Transaction complete.]
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A rush of warmth spread through his mind, followed by a flood of knowledge — clear, structured, alive.
It wasn't like memorizing facts; it felt like he'd practiced Transfiguration a thousand times before.
The downside was… he felt strangely empty afterward, as if all the excitement of learning had been snatched away.
He sighed softly, rubbing his temples.
Gain knowledge, lose curiosity — that seemed to be the tradeoff.
When he looked up, the classroom was now full.
Professor McGonagall had returned to her cat form, perched neatly on the desk. She caught his gaze and gave a small approving nod.
Darren straightened at once, sitting properly.
Moments later, the bell rang — followed almost immediately by the sound of hurried footsteps.
Harry and Ron burst through the door.
"It's okay, it's okay, the Professor's not here yet!" Ron whispered loudly.
Harry nodded, eyes flicking nervously toward Darren.
Darren glanced back with exaggerated worry, his expression pleading as if to say, Don't make it worse!
Harry blinked, confused, about to whisper back when Ron tugged on his sleeve.
"Later, mate — after class!"
Harry sighed and nodded, finding a seat.
A sharp pop cut through the room.
"No, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Potter," said a crisp voice. "It's not that we're about to start class. It's that we already have."
Professor McGonagall stood where the cat had been seconds ago, eyes narrowed.
Both boys froze.
"We—uh—got lost," Harry stammered.
"Perhaps I should transfigure you into a map, then?" she replied dryly. "Sit down. Gryffindor, minus ten points."
Harry sank into his seat, mortified. Ron looked equally crushed — like two scolded puppies.
From across the room came a barely stifled snicker.
"Snrk!"
Draco. Of course.
But after one glare from McGonagall, he straightened instantly, pretending to study his parchment.
"Transfiguration," the Professor began, "is among the most complex and dangerous branches of magic taught at Hogwarts.
If anyone dares to cause mischief in my classroom, they will leave it — permanently."
The class went silent.
Even Hermione Granger, sitting bolt upright in the front row, looked terrified at the idea of being expelled before lunch.
"Watch carefully," McGonagall said. She waved her wand — the desk transformed into a pig. A flick later, it turned back again.
Gasps of awe filled the room.
Darren smiled faintly. It was impressive magic — even after the system's knowledge upgrade, it still amazed him.
When McGonagall finished explaining the basic principles, she passed out boxes of wooden matches.
"Now," she said, "I want each of you to turn your match into a needle."
She began walking between the rows, correcting wand motions and pronunciation.
Darren twirled his wand thoughtfully. The theory was already in his head — crystal clear.
He cast once. The match wobbled, its tip glinting faintly metallic, but it didn't fully transform.
He frowned. "Right. My Transfiguration talent's still low."
He mentally opened his system interface and used four of his saved talent points.
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[Transfiguration Talent: +4 → Current Level: 10]
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He lifted his wand again.
This time, the change was instantaneous — smooth, flawless.
The match shimmered and reshaped into a gleaming silver needle, complete with a perfect little eye.
Professor McGonagall froze mid-step, her expression shifting from stern to astonished.
"Perfect!" she said, delighted. "Mr. Potter Jr. — excellent work. Slytherin, plus ten points!"
Darren smiled shyly as the rest of the class stared.
Across the room, McGonagall's eyes flicked briefly to Harry.
His match hadn't changed at all. His parchment was covered in chaotic scribbles.
Her lips tightened. Another reason the Hat should've switched them, she thought ruefully.
Darren had the composure of a Ravenclaw and the heart of a Gryffindor — yet somehow, he was stuck among Slytherins who wouldn't even sit beside him.
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The next class was Defence Against the Dark Arts — the one everyone had been eager for.
Until they stepped inside.
The smell hit first. Garlic. Everywhere.
Professor Quirrell stood at the front, nervously adjusting his turban, stammering through the syllabus.
Half the Slytherins pinched their noses in disgust.
"It reeks," someone muttered. "Doesn't the Professor ever bathe?"
Darren covered his mouth, suppressing a laugh.
If only they knew what was really hiding behind that turban.
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