Chapter 39: My Unique Insight into Transfiguration
Back in the dormitory, Regulus sat at his desk and lightly traced the cover of Professor McGonagall's deep blue dragon hide notebook.
He turned a few pages. Just as she had said, there were no spells written inside. No neat incantations to memorise, no shortcuts to steal. Instead, the notebook was dense with reflections, conjectures, and the kind of hard earned clarity that came from decades of attempting something, failing, and attempting again.
One passage in particular caught his attention, a discussion on gradients of difficulty in material Transfiguration.
Professor McGonagall believed the difficulty was not only tied to an object's complexity. It was intrinsically linked to the inherent stability of a material's internal structure, and to the strength of its morphological memory.
Regulus leaned back slightly, letting the idea settle.
With today's discussion and his own practice laid over it, he had essentially confirmed a conclusion that had been taking shape in his mind.
Transfiguring an element was harder than turning one complex compound into another, especially when the change demanded a shift in the material's fundamental properties.
Turning a wooden stick into an iron bar meant converting one established structure into another. Organic complexity into metallic order. Even if most first years could only manage crude shape changes, the principle was straightforward enough that many young wizards could stumble their way into a result.
Graphite into diamond was different.
Both were carbon, and that was the problem. He could not cheat by swapping substance for substance. He had to keep the element unchanged and rewrite the way it was connected, rebuild its inner arrangement so completely that two substances with wildly different physical properties could be born from the same base.
That was not simple reshaping. It was reconstruction at the most microscopic level.
Regulus took out the small piece of graphite he carried and began to practise.
He sank his magical perception into the graphite's interior, searching for its layered, stacked structure. He tried to prise apart those sheets, to force local distortions, to create cross links that would bind what wanted to slide. He aimed to produce a tiny region with higher hardness and a changed lustre, a proof of concept more than a finished jewel.
It was maddeningly difficult.
Graphite's loose structure had a peculiar slipping nature. When magic interfered, entire layers tended to shift at once, sabotaging any attempt at precise local restructuring. A moment of carelessness would ruin the integrity of the whole piece and reduce it to soft carbon powder.
He had to control his magic with absurd precision, like an engraver carving lines too fine for the eye to see, welding and cutting where no ordinary sense could guide him.
The work deepened his understanding of wizards and magic.
The wizarding world had not built its knowledge on the same experimental and mathematical framework as Muggles, not in the way his former life had. Yet that did not make it lesser.
McGonagall, with brief observation alone, had judged the intrinsic differences between graphite and diamond with startling accuracy. That intuitive grasp of essence was something Muggle technology still struggled to reproduce cleanly, even when it could measure and label.
Regulus's own advantage was unusual. He had the foundation of scientific thinking from his previous life, and he possessed a magical perception sharpened beyond what he had ever known.
Even so, McGonagall could reach similar conclusions through experience and instinct, a depth accumulated over decades in Transfiguration's heart.
It clarified the path forward for him.
To advance, it was not enough to change form. One had to understand principles. One had to climb until one could alter essence itself.
And Alchemy, especially the supreme achievement represented by the Philosopher's Stone, likely reached into an even more terrifying domain.
That would be more than reorganising arrangements. It might involve altering matter at a level beneath what Transfiguration normally touched.
Turning lead into gold, for instance, would mean changing what made an atom itself what it was, or perfectly fixing every property that defined gold so completely that it remained true and eternal under any scrutiny. This already exceeded the scope of ordinary Transfiguration.
And that was before considering the Stone's other legends, prolonging life, granting immortality, containing vast magical power.
Even Lord Voldemort had wanted it for resurrection.
Regulus paused to rest his focus, and his thoughts drifted as naturally as smoke.
The air around him was filled with elements and compounds: nitrogen, oxygen, carbon dioxide, water vapour, noble gases, countless traces of countless things. Yet the magic of most witches and wizards, whether a shield charm, a jinx, or everyday spells, rarely accounted for subtle changes in those invisible components.
Not because it was impossible.
Because it was overlooked.
Oxygen, for example.
A thought rose, sharp and cold.
What if the oxygen around a human body were instantly transfigured into another oxygen based substance the body could not use, such as ozone?
Or more subtly, what if other substances were transfigured into oxygen for inhalation, then reverted after gas exchange inside the body?
Fibreglass. Asbestos. Even radioactive elements.
Anything.
The key lay in high precision identification and instantaneous transformation of specific elements.
At present it was theory. Dangerous theory. But the direction was correct.
Regulus did not smile, but something in him tightened with quiet satisfaction all the same. A door had been found. Whether he ever chose to walk through it would be another matter.
He returned his attention to the graphite, forcing his magic back into disciplined lines, maintaining delicate control over its internal structure.
Transfiguration grounded in internal arrangement, guided by McGonagall's demonstration and her notebook, had shown him the path. But walking it remained slow, labour intensive, and unforgiving.
The dormitory door opened.
Avery Cuthbert slipped inside, bringing the corridor's chill with him. He saw Regulus at the desk, the small twisted deformed object with its strange lustre floating before him. A subtle, condensed light flowed from the tip of Regulus's wand, controlled and steady.
Transfiguration.
The greeting on Avery's tongue died before it ever became sound.
He had learned enough to recognise the difference between ordinary practise and something that demanded silence. Considering himself, at least nominally, on the same side as Regulus now, he did not dare interrupt.
He tiptoed to his own bed and set down his books.
Not long after, Alex Rosier returned, arms full of study materials, his face relaxed with the relief of finished homework. He opened his mouth to greet Regulus.
Avery lifted a finger to his lips and shot Alex a fierce look, jerking his chin toward Regulus.
Startled, Alex clapped a hand over his mouth at once. He followed Avery's cue and saw the scene properly. Regulus's focus. The floating graphite. The controlled shimmer of magic.
Alex moved quietly to his bed, careful as if the air itself might break.
And yet he felt oddly good.
Avery still carried himself like a spoiled heir, but he had stopped Alex with a gesture, not with Petrificus Totalus or Stupefy. That alone felt like a change worth noticing.
Alex found himself thinking that the dormitory's atmosphere really had shifted.
Before, Avery had been loud and dictatorial, Hermes had been gloomy and unreadable, Regulus had been silent and distant, and Alex had lived on the edge of dread.
Now the hierarchy still existed. It was obvious. But Avery no longer bullied at random, and Regulus, for all his power, was not overbearing.
Alex suspected the change came mostly from Regulus's presence, and the invisible pressure of his standards.
Letters from home drifted through his mind. His parents, as always, urged him to study hard, mind his health, get along with classmates, not force himself into any inner circle, and above all stay safe.
A quiet gratitude welled in his chest.
On the fringes of Slytherin's core, Regulus had unintentionally carved out a space that felt, if not warm, then at least breathable.
Regulus registered his roommates' return without letting it drag his attention off course. His mind moved quickly. Magic flowed in fine, controlled threads as he maintained the delicate work inside the graphite.
Finding the route was one thing. Building the skill to walk it smoothly was another.
The last to return was Hermes Mulciber.
He pushed the door open with a careless motion, bringing a sharper chill from outside. His eyes flicked across the room in one swift sweep: Regulus practising, Avery's silencing gesture, Alex's cautious obedience.
A nearly invisible curve touched Hermes's lips.
He was indifferent to Avery's voluntary surrender, and if anything, he seemed to look down on it.
Hermes had lost to Regulus in their earlier duel, and he had been shaken by how easily Regulus had neutralised his immature Bone Blood Separation. Even so, a hard confidence still sat in his bones.
He believed he had trump cards Regulus had not seen.
School rules made many methods inconvenient to display. Hogwarts walls were not designed for true cruelty, and Professors had an irritating habit of arriving before the fun really began.
But outside school, in an unconstrained life or death duel, Hermes believed that with the Dark Arts passed down through his family, he might not be without a chance to kill Regulus.
Names and methods flickered through his mind like a private prayer.
Shadow Bind Devourer. It summoned shadowy tentacles drawn from dark creatures. They could bind a target and drain life force and magic continuously. The victim would feel bone deep cold and a weakness that reached for the soul.
Pain Echo. A strike that did not end when the blow landed. It amplified and prolonged every suffering the target later endured, physical and psychological alike. The agony echoed within the body, grinding down sanity and control, often ending in suicide or madness simply because the pain would not stop.
Withering Breath. A malicious curse. The victim did not die at once. Starting from the wound or point of contact, flesh, blood, and magic would wither like a plant left in drought, slowly sliding into necrosis. It was difficult to cure, long in its torment, and it carried an aura that made nearby plants decay as well.
That was power worth pursuing.
Swift. Lethal. Saturated with pain and deterrence. The kind of magic that forced fear into the deepest part of an enemy's mind.