Minerva Mcgonagall
Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor Umbridge was there.
“That will do,” she said, and silence fell immediately. “Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework—Miss Brown, please take this box of mice—don’t be silly, girl, they won’t hurt you—and hand one to each student—”
“Hem, hem,” said Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she had used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term.
Professor McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back Harry’s essay; Harry took it without looking at him and saw, to his relief, that he had managed an A.
“Right then, everyone, listen closely—Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again I shall put you in detention—most of you have now successfully vanished your snails, and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today we shall be—”
“Hem, hem,” said Professor Umbridge.
“Yes?” said Professor McGonagall, turning round, her eyebrows so close together they seemed to form one long, severe line.
“I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec—”
“Obviously I received it, or I would have asked you what you are doing in my classroom,” said Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of glee.
“As I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of mice. Now, the Vanishing Spell—”
“Hem, hem.”
“I wonder,” said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge, “how you expect to gain an idea of my usual teaching methods if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when I am talking.”
Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in the face. She did not speak, but straightened the parchment on her clipboard and began scribbling furiously.
Looking supremely unconcerned, Professor McGonagall addressed the class once more.
“As I was saying, the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner. So — you know the incantation, let me see what you can do . . .”
McGonagall paused, then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, turned back to the class.
“Actually, let me demonstrate once more.”
With a casual flick of her wand, the snail she had been using vanished in an instant. But before anyone could react, she gave her wand another swish, and a new creature appeared on the desk in front of her.
A toad.
A pink toad.
A plump, squat, very familiar pink toad.
The class fell into stunned silence, eyes darting between the toad and the rigid, quivering form of Professor Umbridge. The transfiguration was so precise that when the toad opened its wide mouth, instead of a croak, it let out a distinct, high-pitched—
“Hem-hem!”
There was an audible intake of breath from the students. Several desks creaked under the weight of Gryffindors trying very hard not to collapse from suppressed laughter. Even Malfoy looked momentarily torn between horror and amusement.
Professor McGonagall, completely unfazed, examined the toad with the critical air of a seasoned Transfiguration expert. She nodded approvingly.
“Flawless work, if I do say so myself,” she remarked, tapping her wand against her palm. “You see, class, true mastery of Transfiguration lies in the details. A simple toad is one thing, but adding personality—why, that is what separates the great from the merely competent.”
The toad—Umbridge?—twitched violently, its squat little throat puffing up in what could only be described as rage. But all that came out was another “Hem-hem!”
Harry had to stuff his fist into his mouth. Ron was bent over, shoulders shaking. Hermione was staring at McGonagall as though re-evaluating her entire existence.
The professor, as composed as ever, turned back to the class. “Now, class, let’s take this a step further. Transfiguring something all at once is, of course, more efficient than working in parts. However, breaking it down can be an excellent exercise in precision.”
She raised an eyebrow and, with a casual flick of her wand, removed the toad’s head.
The silence was deafening.
The now-headless pink toad sat motionless on the desk. From somewhere in the classroom, a soft, strangled choking sound emerged—possibly from Neville, who looked like he might faint.
McGonagall gave a small nod. “Personally, if I had to remove a part, I’d say the head is the most effective choice.” She turned her gaze toward the class, her lips twitching ever so slightly. “But I leave it to your discretion. Each of you will receive a toad of your own—remove whichever part you find most appropriate.”
Her eyes twinkled as she surveyed the students,.
“Transfiguration,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “is about control.”
The toad let out one last weak, headless “Hem-hem!” before slumping over.