Chapter III
The morning of Harry’s first class Transfiguration dawned crisp and clear, the sunlight filtering through the high windows of the Great Hall as breakfast passed in a blur of quiet observations. Harry sat among his Slytherin peers, his posture relaxed but his mind working at full tilt. Across the hall, the Gryffindor table bustled with noise and laughter—an irritating contrast to the calculated calm he had begun cultivating in his own house.
He watched the professors closely, taking careful note of their dynamics. Dumbledore, seated at the head table, exuded an air of serenity that Harry didn’t trust for a moment. Beside him, McGonagall was a study in restraint, her movements sharp and precise. The faint lines on her face spoke of a woman who tolerated no nonsense.
Harry had no intention of drawing her ire.
Transfiguration, according to Hogwarts: A History, was among the most difficult branches of magic. A lesser student might have been intimidated, but Harry felt a thrill at the challenge. In past lives, he’d reshaped entire landscapes with magic; surely, there’s nothing in the curriculum here that would prove to be too much of a challenge.
Yet he reminded himself of the stakes. He was in a new world, with new rules. Overconfidence had undone him before, and he would not make that mistake again.
The moment he stepped into the Transfiguration classroom, Harry understood that this lesson would demand more than simple rote memorization. The walls were lined with shelves of books and curious objects—goblets that shimmered like crystal, quills that occasionally sprouted feathers, and a cage of mice that watched the students with unsettling intelligence.
Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the room, her gaze sharp as a hawk’s. Her robes, perfectly pressed, carried an air of authority that brooked no argument. Harry took a seat near the middle of the room, carefully positioning himself—not so far back that he would appear disinterested, but not in the front row where eager students often painted targets on their backs.
McGonagall’s voice cut through the chatter like a blade.
“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she began, her brogue crisp and precise. “Those who are not prepared to give this subject their full attention would do well to leave now.”
Her eyes swept the room, lingering for a moment on Harry. He met her gaze evenly, his expression neutral. He could tell she was sizing him up, perhaps expecting some trace of arrogance or entitlement. Harry gave her none.
“Good,” she said after a pause. “Let us begin.”
The first part of the lesson was theory—a lecture on the principles of Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration and the limitations it imposed. Most of the class seemed to struggle with the abstract concepts, their faces pinched in confusion as McGonagall explained the difference between conjuration and true transformation.
Harry, however, absorbed the information like a sponge.
The idea of limits intrigued him. In previous lives, he had always pushed against the boundaries of magic, testing the edges of what was possible. This world’s magic seemed more rigid, governed by rules and laws that felt almost mathematical. Yet Harry knew that where there were rules, there were also loopholes.
He kept his hand down during the lecture, listening carefully to both McGonagall and the questions asked by his peers. Hermione Granger’s hand shot up repeatedly, her answers verbose but correct. Harry filed her away as someone to watch—bright, but too eager to prove herself. Draco, meanwhile, slouched in his seat, his expression one of mild disdain. Harry doubted he had understood half of what McGonagall had said.
By the time they moved on to practical work, Harry’s mind was already racing with possibilities.
The First Attempt
“Today, we will begin with a simple exercise,” McGonagall announced, waving her wand at the desks. In an instant, matchsticks appeared before each student, their dull, wooden surfaces gleaming faintly in the sunlight. “Your task is to transfigure these matchsticks into needles. Precision is key—your needle should be sharp, metallic, and free of imperfections. Begin.”
The room filled with the sound of murmured incantations and the occasional spark of misfired magic. Harry picked up his wand and studied the matchstick before him, tilting it in the light. He could feel the faint pulse of magic in the wood, the potential waiting to be unlocked.
He didn’t rush. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the transformation. He pictured the grain of the wood smoothing into polished metal, the pointed tip glinting like a blade. In his mind, he rehearsed the incantation, shaping the magic with precision.
When he opened his eyes, he raised his wand and murmured, “Ferroformare.”
The matchstick shimmered, its surface rippling like water. Slowly, it began to elongate, the wood fading to reveal a dull metallic sheen. The tip sharpened into a fine point, and the edges smoothed into a flawless finish.
It wasn’t perfect—the metal was slightly tarnished, and the shape was a touch uneven—but it was a needle. A functional one.
Harry leaned back, his lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile.
McGonagall swept through the room, her sharp gaze inspecting each attempt. She paused at Neville Longbottom’s desk, where the boy’s matchstick had burst into flames. With a flick of her wand, she Vanished the flames banished the remnants and offered a brisk correction.
When she reached Harry’s desk, her eyebrows lifted slightly.
“A solid first attempt, Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone neutral but tinged with surprise. She picked up the needle, holding it to the light. “Slight tarnish on the metal and a minor irregularity in shape, but the fundamentals are strong.”
Harry inclined his head, accepting the critique without a word. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him, their whispers buzzing faintly in the background.
McGonagall’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before she moved on, her expression thoughtful.
By the end of the lesson, Harry had refined his technique, producing a needle that gleamed like polished silver. He left it on his desk as the class filed out, knowing McGonagall would notice it.
As he walked to his next class, Harry allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He hadn’t drawn too much attention, but he had made an impression where it mattered. McGonagall was sharp—someone who valued discipline and precision. She would watch him more closely now, but that was fine. Harry was used to being watched.
the air seemed heavier as Harry descended into the dungeons for his first Potions lesson. The stone walls were damp with condensation, and the torches sputtered with an eerie green glow. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should, the atmosphere oppressive and cold.
The Slytherins moved with familiarity, their strides confident as though the dungeons belonged to them. Harry, for his part, fell in line, his sharp eyes noting how Draco Malfoy led the group, his pointed chin raised slightly as though expecting deference. The Gryffindors were quieter, their confidence tempered by the unfamiliar environment.
As the group filed into the classroom, Harry immediately noticed the distinct chill in the air, sharper than anywhere else in the castle. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with glass jars that glinted in the dim light. Inside, preserved things—roots, herbs, and creatures suspended in viscous liquids—floated with an unsettling stillness.
Snape was waiting at the front of the room, a tall figure draped in black robes that swirled like smoke as he moved. His dark eyes fixed on the students with a gaze that felt invasive, searching.
Harry felt it immediately. The hatred.
Snape’s eyes lingered on him for just a fraction longer than anyone else. It wasn’t a passing dislike or the mild irritation some teachers might have for the reputation of the Boy Who Lived. No, this was something older, something deeply personal.
Harry met the gaze head-on, keeping his expression blank. He’s dealt with much worse.
“There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class,” Snape began, his voice low but carrying with the weight of steel. “As such, I expect most of you will hardly comprehend the subtle science and exact art that is potion-making.”
His words dripped with disdain, and though his gaze swept across the room, it always seemed to circle back to Harry.
“You are here to learn the delicate balance of ingredients, the control required to coax power from mundane materials. I can teach you how to brew fame, bottle glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t the dunderheads I suspect you to be.”
The class sat in uncomfortable silence, Gryffindors shifting in their seats while the Slytherins smirked. Draco, in particular, looked as though he were watching a favorite show.
“Potter!” Snape barked suddenly, his voice cracking like a whip.
Harry felt every eye in the room snap to him. He looked up, his expression deliberately mild.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell me, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”
Harry paused. He recognized the tactic—Snape wasn’t testing his knowledge; he was setting a trap. The question wasn’t in their introductory reading, and most first-years wouldn’t have the answer.
But Harry wasn’t most first-years.
“You would get a Draught of Living Death,” Harry replied evenly.
Snape’s lips twitched, though whether in approval or irritation, Harry couldn’t tell.
“Correct,” Snape said, his voice clipped, his eyes narrowing as they swept over Harry. “Let’s try again. Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”
“The stomach of a goat,” Harry answered, his reply sharp and immediate.
Snape’s lips twitched, barely concealing his displeasure. “And tell me, Potter,” he continued, his drawl dripping with disdain, “what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?”
“They’re the same plant,” Harry replied calmly. “Also known as aconite.”
A heavy silence fell over the classroom, punctuated only by the faint rustle of students shifting in their seats. Snape’s gaze didn’t leave Harry’s face, his expression inscrutable, before he finally spoke.
“Well,” Snape said, his voice a low, mocking tone, “it seems our… celebrity has been doing his homework.”
The Slytherins chuckled. The Gryffindors shifted uncomfortably. Harry, however, did not react. He held Snape’s gaze steadily, his expression neutral. He wasn’t here for games—Snape could keep those for himself.
Snape turned sharply, flicking his wand to summon a neat, looping script on the blackboard.
“Today, we’ll attempt the Cure for Boils. A simple potion, though given the obvious intellectual prowess in this room, I expect half of you will fail spectacularly.”
The students began moving, retrieving their cauldrons and ingredients in a flurry. Harry moved methodically, placing his supplies on the desk—snake fangs, dried nettles, horned slugs—each item carefully arranged. Potions were nothing compared to what he had mastered over the years. But he didn’t need to show that. Not yet.
He began to work slowly, making sure to keep the pace steady, not attracting unnecessary attention. Neville Longbottom, sitting beside him, was visibly nervous. The boy’s hands trembled as he fumbled with his ingredients, shaking slightly when he measured the nettles. Harry glanced at him, his eyes flicking to the spoon in Neville’s hand.
“You’ve overfilled it,” Harry murmured quietly, not breaking his rhythm. “Add a bit more slug.”
Neville’s eyes widened, but he nodded and scrambled to correct it, dropping the slug into the mixture with a rushed movement. The potion hissed but soon settled, turning the correct pale orange.
“Two pieces, not one,” Harry added under his breath. “Make sure they’re measured right.”
Neville looked startled but nodded again, following the advice. The potion simmered more evenly now.
Harry returned his focus to his own work. He stirred his cauldron in a slow, deliberate motion, watching the potion come together with precision. The scent of herbs and the faint crackle of magic filled the air. Someone’s potion bubbled over with a frantic hiss, but Harry didn’t flinch. He was in control of his own.
As Snape prowled the room, his presence cutting through the air like a blade, Harry could feel the man’s cold eyes following his every movement. When Snape finally stopped behind him, the air seemed to thicken, the room holding its breath.
“Let’s see what the great Harry Potter has managed,” Snape said, his voice a low drawl.
Harry took a half step back, allowing Snape to lean over and scrutinize his work. The potion shimmered in the cauldron, exactly as it should be, the surface smooth and the color precisely as prescribed.
Snape’s eyes flicked over it once, then twice, before he straightened, his expression impossible to read.
“Passable,” he said curtly, his words as sharp as ever.
Harry nodded, neither pleased nor disappointed. He didn’t need Snape’s approval—only his acknowledgment.
Across the room, Neville’s cauldron let out a screeching hiss, spewing green smoke into the air. Snape’s head snapped toward the sound, his face twisting into a mask of fury.
“Longbottom!” Snape barked, striding toward the trembling boy. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing, or are you simply trying to poison us all?”
Neville stammered, his face ashen, trying to explain.
“Silence!” Snape snapped. “Clean this mess up now. And twenty points from Gryffindor for your incompetence.”
Harry’s eyes flicked to Neville’s hunched figure. The boy looked like he might collapse. Harry knew weakness when he saw it—but more importantly, he knew how to turn it into strength. But Neville wasn’t ready for that, not yet.
When class finally ended, Harry left the dungeons with deliberate calm. The temperature of the stone corridors seemed to cling to his robes, but he ignored the chill. The Gryffindors muttered darkly among themselves about the lost points, while the Slytherins exchanged smug looks, their laughter a quiet backdrop. Harry slipped through it all, carefully maneuvering through the social currents.
The Great Hall buzzed with the chatter of students as they filled the long tables. Steam rose from the platters of food, mingling with the voices and clinking silverware. Harry moved to the Slytherin table, deliberately sitting at the far end, away from Draco Malfoy’s usual crowd. Blaise Zabini sat nearby, his expression unreadable, his eyes flicking between the students around him, his awareness sharp.
“Can you believe Snape?” Draco’s voice rang down the table, a sharp laugh threading through his words. “Twenty points from Longbottom. I thought he was going to cry right there in class.”
The others joined in the laughter, but Blaise remained silent, his gaze steady. Harry noticed it, the way Blaise didn’t play along with Draco’s theatrics. Blaise’s detachment wasn’t just indifference—it was restraint.
“Snape was right,” Pansy said, leaning in. “Some people just don’t have what it takes.”
Harry kept his expression neutral, but his mind worked, processing the subtleties of their behavior. Draco’s arrogance, Pansy’s eager flatteries, and Blaise’s quiet observation. It wasn’t lost on him that each of them had a role in this game, one Harry was beginning to understand. But he wasn’t interested in playing by their rules. Not yet.
“Not everyone’s made for greatness,” Harry said, his voice cool as he speared a piece of chicken, the words hanging in the air.
Draco smirked, clearly misunderstanding the double meaning, and Pansy giggled. Blaise simply glanced at Harry with a brief, calculating look.
The conversation continued, but Harry’s attention drifted. He studied the other tables—Gryffindor, loud and chaotic; Ravenclaw, disciplined and precise; Hufflepuff, easygoing but quietly loyal. He kept his gaze steady, collecting information, absorbing every nuance.
From across the hall, Harry caught Hermione’s eyes for a fleeting moment. She looked away quickly, but not before Harry noticed the flicker of curiosity—or maybe wariness—in her expression. She would be a force to reckon with, but for now, she was more of a potential pawn.
The conversation at the Slytherin table shifted, and Draco’s voice cut through Harry’s thoughts again.
“So, Potter,” Draco said, leaning in with an almost challenging glint in his eyes, “how’d you find your first Potions lesson?”
“Informative,” Harry replied, his tone even, not giving away more than necessary.
“Snape’s the best professor here,” Draco continued, a hint of superiority in his voice. “You’d do well to stay on his good side.”
Harry met Draco’s gaze, his eyes steady. “Good advice.”
The meal went on, the conversations swirling around him. He didn’t need to participate, not yet. He was content to watch, to listen, and to plan.
As the students filtered out of the hall, Harry lingered, his mind already calculating the next move. He had learned much in his first Potions class—Snape’s hostility, Blaise’s calculated distance, Draco’s arrogance. He saw how the pieces fit together, and soon enough, he would make his move.