Scientia potentia est
Knowledge is power.
Seeing the students of Durmstrang off was quite the difficult endeavor, especially when one Sirius Black refused to stay away. The knowledge that his godson would return to Durmstrang without them even meeting was a devastating thought that had the man willing to fight the minister. (Though that was never hard for Sirius with his utter disgust and hatred for Fudge.)
“Cissa, if I don’t get to see my godson before he leaves, I swear I’ll blast a hole straight through the Ministry and make a bloody criminal of myself all over again.” Sirius spat, having paced dozens upon dozens of times that the ancient rug beneath his feet might as well wear out. Harry was set to leave in a few hours time and Sirius didn’t bloody know when he’ll be able to see his godson again. Maybe he should invest in the murder of Dumbledore—by grabbing an actual gun and shooting the motherfucker between his eyes.
Alas, Narcissa seems to have sensed the murder, harshly slapping his arm and scowling. “Sirius, do try not to be so crass. As much as I’d dearly love to assist in reuniting you with your heir, I’ve already told you—our Lord and Lucius are seeking ways for you to meet him. If you insist on acting recklessly now, you’ll only diminish your chances of seeing Hyperion.” She pinches his arm ever so lightly (very hard) and scoffs at his dramatics.
“I would only have very little time with him, ‘Cissa.”
“Then emphasise your desire to start writing letters, Sirius. Don’t make a fool of yourself when you reunite with the young lord. It would be a shame if you embarrassed the House of Black to our heir of all people.” Narcissa shook her head, a deep frown etched across her face before she let out a soft sigh. Her gaze flicks over Sirius—lingering on the disheveled collar of his robes, the defiant set of his jaw, the restless clench of his fists—before drifting back to meet his eyes, cool and unblinking. “Keep calm.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to keep calm knowing that my son is about to leave and I may never get another chance to see him?!” Sirius groaned, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking until the ribbon slipped loose, dark strands falling messily over his eyes. His gaze darted to Narcissa, perched with effortless poise, every inch the composed lady, while his own feet throbbed from relentless pacing. He huffed, jaw tightening, the restless energy coiling in his chest sharper than the hollow stretch of twelve years in Azkaban. How could a few hours feel worse than that?
“Sit down already.”
“No—AH! CISSA, WHAT THE FUCK?!” He hissed, rubbing at the stinging pain on his arm as he glared at the wand in Narcissa’s hand. The way she narrowed her eyes painfully reminded him of the way his aunt Druella—Narcissa’s mother—would scrutinise them for their poor behaviour. “What spell did you use? Damnit.”
“Just the normal stinging spell, Sirius. Now sit down before I break your legs.” Delicately wrapping her fingers on a tea cup, sha spares him a single glance before gesturing to the seat opposite to hers. “Sit.”
Sirius knows a command when he hears one. Reluctantly, he trudges towards the plush seat. He crossed his arms, turning to Narcissa with a small pout while the other pays no mind to his glare.
“Patience. All children of House Black are taught that from a young age, my dear cousin. I understand you never took such lessons to heart, but it would be most unwise to forget them.” With a small huff, Narcissa shakes her head.
There is no patience left in Sirius’ bones when it comes to Harry. He is willing to remain patient for his boy, to be the best that Harry deserves. But merely seeing Harry forces the patience out of him, making every part of him want to rip a hole in the planet just to be with his godson. Twelve years and Sirius remembers every single moment in which he held his boy. Even then, it didn’t reach thirty—wrecking his very soul with devastation.
He wants his little star. He wants his boy.
He needs Harry.
A faint knock snapped him from his musings. The image of little Harry—just a baby, chubby finger pointed at the stars Sirius had proudly named—faded like smoke. The room grew still, the air tightening around them. Sirius and Narcissa rose in unison, wands slipping into their hands with practiced ease. Their eyes locked on the door, unblinking, breaths shallow. The faint creak of the floorboards beyond sounded louder than it should have. Was it an intruder or an ally? Hard to tell these days—especially since Dumbledore had all but forced his way into Grimmauld Place months ago.
“Cissa?”
Narcissa’s eyes flicked to Sirius, sharp and glinting like ice, a silent command woven into the briefest glance. His pulse pounded, each beat loud in his ears, his breath shallow. He blinked once—just once—before Narcissa stepped forward, her movements fluid but taut. The tip of her wand met the door, steady, ready, the magic thrumming beneath her fingertips. If it was an enemy, they wouldn’t get the chance to strike first. The walls of Black Manor stood strong, more secure than Grimmauld Place—but the weight of old blood carried its own brand of paranoia, etched into marrow and muscle, a legacy as old as the name they carried.
“Did it go well?” Narcissa’s voice was firm, woven into a softness that would make her seem unsuspecting. But her eyes were narrowed, watching and waiting. “Is our fils chéri (beloved son) well?”
The silence stretched, taut as a drawn wire. Then—six faint, deliberate knocks, each one punctuating the stillness. A voice followed, smooth and sharp, every syllable crisp with practiced authority. Lucius. “Everything went smoothly, mon amour. Our petite étoile (little star) was merely nervous.”
Narcissa breathed a sigh of relief, quietly gesturing to Sirius that it was clear. There was not much for Sirius to decipher the little hint that showed an imposter over the real thing. But it involved Draco. It always involved Draco for this couple.
She pulled the door open just as Sirius reluctantly lowered his wand, fingers twitching like they weren’t quite ready to let go of the fight. Lucius stepped in, all polished arrogance and perfectly timed precision, planting a stiff kiss on Narcissa’s lips— ugh, as if that wasn’t nauseating enough. His gaze shifted to Sirius almost immediately, sharp and assessing, like he was measuring every flaw, every crack beneath the surface. Sirius met it head-on, masking the itch crawling under his skin. That look—serious, calculated, layered with unspoken threats. Typical Lucius. Always so stiff, so insufferably proper. Hmph… what a boring man.
“It has been decided that you shall accompany our Lord in my stead. You are expected at Hogwarts within thirty minutes, following the feast.” Lucius clears his throat, frowning at Sirius. Those mercury eyes flick up and down, observing Sirius with practiced condescension. “I expect you to conduct yourself with decorum, Sirius. This is a significant occasion, one that may well secure an alliance with Durmstrang… so do try not to embarrass yourself by bursting into tears at the sight of your godson.”
“I will curse your ass to the next month.” Sirius spat, rolling his eyes before he turned to Narcissa. "Ma chère cousine,(my dear cousin) help me pick an outfit. I mustn’t make a fool of myself in front of my boy!”
“You already make a fool of yourself, petite étoile (little star).” Narcissa rolls her eyes but isn’t quite subtle about how she unhooks herself from her husband to drag her cousin out the room.
Sirius tilted his head ever so slightly, a smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind that practically begged to be irritating. Lucius responded with an eye roll so dramatic it was a miracle his head didn’t fall off from the sheer weight of disdain. The audacity. As if he had any right to be annoyed—please. If anyone should be rolling their eyes, it was Sirius, having to endure Lucius’ perpetual air of self-importance, like the man was allergic to being remotely tolerable.
With a dramatic huff, his fingers raked through his hair, as though the strands had personally offended him. A quick glance swept over his belongings. Impeccably packed, naturally. The room? Practically gleaming under his expert touch (or perhaps it had always been that way, but why split hairs?). His gaze landed on the small box of cookies tucked neatly by the door. Ah, yes—the cookies. A generous offering for the house elves, of course, though if he “forgot” them, his dear sister might just resurrect ancient curses to express her gratitude on their behalf. She had strong feelings about house elf rights—passionate, really. Noble of her. Admirable, even. But his ears were still recovering from the last... enlightening lecture on the subject. Best not risk another round.
He drank it all in with the kind of wistful detachment reserved for great men leaving behind their legacies. The walls, of course, were practically bursting with the echoes of his brilliance—woven seamlessly alongside the lesser stories of students and teachers who’d merely had the good fortune of existing in the same space as him. Honestly, sentimentality was overrated. Best to let the castle breathe, free from the clutter of old memories, both dazzling and dull (mostly dull, if we’re being fair). A thorough cleansing would do wonders, really—a fresh slate, unmarred by the past. Not his responsibility, though. If the place grew heavy with history’s dust, well, that was hardly his fault. Blame the headmaster! After all, wasn’t that what headmasters were for?
The heat in his pocket flares, sharp and insistent—impatient, like it knows something he doesn’t. He hums—because of course he does—as if he’s got all the time in the world, fingers lazy until his thumb grazes the edge. Just a little press, a smug smear of red, and the mirror drinks it down like it’s been waiting all day.
His reflection ripples in the mirror, before he yawns and lies back down on the bed. Great, he’s gonna have to smooth that down again, but a flick of his wrist would have already done that. “Neville, my dear, why are you calling?”
“Hyperion,” Neville’s tired expression ripples into being within the mirror, dark bags under his eyes as a tired glare sets upon his expression. It was far different from the timid boy two years ago. He was now more… “Why is Hermione in a war path?”
“Oh! That’s cause I’ve been in Hogwarts for the past few days.”
“You’re fucking where?!”
“I’m not having sex at the moment, Nev. Very rude of you to—”
“Asshole.”
“Rude.”
Harry hums again, all casual charm, arm tucked behind his head like he’s posing for a portrait no one asked for. His gaze hooks onto the mirror, where Neville’s looking delightfully worse for wear—eyes dulled, frame trimmed down like life’s been gnawing at the edges. And yet… better somehow. Funny, that. Harry smirks, already spinning the tale in his head: Neville’s found himself a new distraction. Probably fragile. Definitely breakable.
“What did you do?”
Neville spares him but a small glance, “Nothing.”
Harry cackles, “You got a new plaything?”
“Maybe.”
“Hm…” Harry’s eyes narrow, rolling over on his stomach. “Show me.”
“Hell no!” Neville vehemently denies, clearly tossing his mirror on his end. It lands with a loud clatter and thud that makes Harry huff, watching as the other boy was left to his own devices. Which, by the way, Harry could see was him tinkering with potions and powders.
“C’mon. I’ve shown you my trinkets and toys. Why won’t you show me yours.” Harry pouts.
“Because you’ll manage to add it into yours again. Remember what you did when you got your hands on my Somnia Terrifica?” Neville glances back at him again, loathing and irritation in his eyes.
“Good times, those were. I don’t regret giving that bomb to Theo.”
“Oh, brilliant, Hyperion—a bomb. You actually made a bloody bomb with my pain-inducing hallucinogenic and then, in all your infinite wisdom, handed it over to one of our most chaotic, violent nutters. Absolutely fucking stellar!” There’s a loud bang on Neville’s end, most likely cause he either threw something or tripped on it.
Either way, Harry was horrendously delighted to see Neville’s suffering and annoyance with him. The smirk he wore spread across his face without shame, just as he stared at the mirror to see Neville re emerge into view.
“Neville, my dear! It was all rather beneficial, wasn’t it? Helped us get rid of those blasted Yaroviks and Belogorovs. I mean, if I hadn’t let Theo have a go with it, those five would still be breathing, wouldn’t they? Ha!” Harry chuckles, “Oh, it’s not such a dreadful thing. I’ll be a darling and ask before nicking any more of your concoctions, promise. Oh, speaking of which—have you refined that fear potion yet? I’m absolutely itching to try it out on someone!”
Neville smacks his hands together, scoffing. “Oh, I do hope you manage to shoot yourself while faffing about with that bloody gun of yours. Go on, give the Cruciatus a whirl with it next time—might just blow up right in your face. Wouldn’t that be delightful?”
“I will!”
Neville sighs, already seeing a loss cause. “Nevermind. Just know that Hermione is already on her way.”
Harry lets out a groan, clicking his tongue. “I know, I know. ‘Mione needn’t come here yet she insists.”
“What better way to say fuck you to everyone who underestimated her than to come prancing back as the one and only sister of Lord Peverell.”
“Sweet of you, Nev.” Harry drawls, dropping the mirror by the side of his head. “Come back to the manor on yule, alright? Wait… does Castelobruxo have any breaks by December.”
“Yep.”
“Come home.” Harry hums, “We’ll pick up Luna on the way back.”
“Yeah, yeah. But aren’t you s’posed to be clearing off? Best get a move on before ‘Mione barges in and yanks you out by the ear.” With a small tilt of his head, Neville gives Harry a pointed look. “Bye.”
“Wait—” But Neville’s reflection ripples away, leaving Harry to his own musing—cursing under his breath.
The knock hit like an insult—rude, unwelcome, and terribly timed, slicing right through Harry’s colorful string of curses. He groans, fingers tangling in his hair, shooting the door a look sharp enough to cut. Silence answers, stretching thin and taut, as if daring him to care. Just one knock. Soft, simple, annoyingly polite.
So it was between Genevieve and Cecilia. Hm…
“Vivi.”
He flicked his wrist as the door swung open, revealing Genevieve dressed in neatly pressed, light navy robes with a cream coloured dress to pair with it. Her soft features and oval face is a familiar and almost comforting sight that makes him tilt his head.
“Need anything?”
Genevieve frowns, crossing her arms as her thick brows furrowed at his behaviour. “Rion, I do understand you’re not fond of this place, but do try to keep your room tidy. We really don’t need anyone passing remarks about our decorum while we’re outside of Durmstrang.”
“I’m on my best behaviour, Vivi.” Harry scoffs, already rolling his wrist as his magic wove through the air and seamlessly tidied up his wrinkle sheets. He turns to Genevieve with a smile, “See?”
“Horrible.” Genevieve smiles, “I have a question, regarding my POM research paper.”
“Theoretical or Philosophical?”
“Mechanical and Functional.”
“Ah! What kind of study? Considering mine is more historical and descriptive.” Harry shrugs. His Principles of magic research was based on the absurdity of morality being forced upon magic. And from what he remembers, Hermione’s equivalent of POM in Beauxbatons was a research study on reality manipulation from transfigurations and illusory magic.
“I’m conducting a comparative study on magical conduits. I’ve been delving into wandlore recently, but I’ve hit a bit of an impasse when it comes to literal weapons being used as conduits. Might you have any books on the subject? I must, rather unfortunately, admit that the Morganach library is woefully lacking when it comes to material on magical conduits.” Genevieve let out a long-suffering sigh, pressing her hand against her cheek as she looked up at him whilst his trunk was being floated out the room with him.
“Tragic. I’ll see what I can do. Any more research papers aside from POM?”
“You’re the only one insane enough to choose the research papers over the exams. But yes, I do have another research paper to work on. Professor Morozova’s mandatory research paper.”
“Katya’s research paper. Already have an idea for a title?”
“It’s been a month and nothing comes up.”
Harry tilts his head, a lazy sort of curiosity flickering. Funny how people weren’t wired like him and his sister. He’d nailed down his subjects ages ago—because, well, when you’ve got obsessions loud enough to drown out common sense, decisions make themselves. Lucky him, really. Gifted, some might say. He’d agree.
“What exactly are you interested in? Take my studies for example.” Harry shrunk his trunk, dropping it into his pocket and making sure it was secured. “I’m more curious about the emotions vs. intent theory so I’m conducting a study on the effects of emotional overload on spellcasting.”
“Well, of course yours is horrendously interesting. I’ve not the faintest idea what I actually want to research when it comes to Dark Studies. It’s all rather confusing, really, since the categories seem to shift depending on where we are. Should I lean into the ‘dark as emotion’ theory, or focus on ‘dark as magic tied to the body and mind’? Honestly, it’s maddening.” She lifted one hand and the other, pretending like they were scales as her lips were etched into a frown.
“If you want to go for the emotion-based theory then you can research the different effects and results from the emotional spectrum. For the French theory, you can delve into healing magic being dark magic.”
“The French Theory sounds harder than the Emotion Theory.”
“The harder the subject, the more interesting it is.” He shrugs, grin all sharp edges and teeth, like he’s daring her to disagree. Genevieve doesn’t. She just shudders, a quiet little tremor, and nods.
Their conversation snaps in half as Aurelia storms toward them, her face wearing frustration like it’s the latest fashion. Cecilia and Theseus trail after her, jittery and unsure—like skittish cats debating whether to bolt or cling. “Where the hell have you been? The bloody headmaster’s not just going to let us waltz out of here! And Morozova and Szekeres still aren’t here!”
Harry rolls his eyes, “Oh, right, because Dumbledore’s just dying to let us leave. He’ll want that bloody feast to drag on, all smiles and twinkly-eyed nonsense, trying to convince us to stay. Play the usual ‘wise old grandfather’ act, guilt us into being his little soldiers. So, do us all a favour—don’t sit anywhere near him, and stick close to Roksana.”
“I’m this close to blowing the whole bloody place up if that senile old codger keeps prattling on, trying to play nice. Ugh! I already miss the sodding cold!” Aurelia whines, turning to Cecilia and Theseus who were still rather hesitant. “What the hell are you two doing? Oi, get over here. We’ve got to stick together, or these idiots’ll pull something spectacularly stupid. Ugh… Absolutely ridiculous.”
Genevieve huffs, already shepherding Cecilia and Theseus towards her. “Where is Theodore?”
“Already in the hall with his buddies.”
Harry clicks his tongue, “Bit tempted to knock him out, actually. Fun fact—Hermione’s on her way to make sure we actually get back to Durmstrang. No clue what the hell she’s fed Maxime, but she’s out of Beauxbatons on our behalf. Isn’t that just charming?” A grin spreads across his face yet again, the thought of his sister returning to Hogwarts in all her ink-scented glory.
“Hyperion, what the fuck?!” Aurelia screeches, quickly summing a mirror, shoving it into poor Theseus’ hands and quickly checking herself. “Why didn't you tell me earlier? I look horrendous! Haggard!”
“Dreadful.” Harry drawls, snickering as he watches Aurelia whip out her wand and start styling her hair, the top section loosely pulled back and pinned, creating a relaxed half-up, half-down style. “Try curling it a bit. Also, why do you do this every time we see my sister? I do hope you aren’t in love with my darling Hermione, Aurea Mea (My golden), or I might just have to curse you.”
He snaps his fingers, causing poor Aurelia to scowl at the sparks that came from him.
“Oi, piss off! I’m not in love with your sister. It’s just that… Hermione’s a brilliant person, Harry. Who wouldn’t want to impress her?” Aurelia clicks her tongue quietly, brushing her fingers through her curls. “Theseus, do I look good?”
“Uhmm… Uh—Y-You look grand, Lia. Very elegant! And—And your makeup’s still perfect!” Theseus stutters, his Irish accent tripping over itself, thick and clumsy with nerves. Honestly, Harry figures the kid’s wound a little too tight, like life’s one big pop quiz he forgot to study for. They’ve tried to iron out the anxious edges, sure—but Theseus’ knack for unraveling at the worst moments? That’s proven harder to fix, thanks to… well, history.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” Aurelia huffs, pressing a gentle kiss to Theseus’ cheek before hooking her arms with Genevieve and Cecilia. “Let’s be off, then. Best hurry so we don’t miss Theodore’s face when Hermione just pops out of nowhere.”
“Isn’t it too much if we suddenly start bullying him for such things? Poor Theo hasn't done anything bad lately.” Cecilia hums softly, “He's been well behaved here.”
“Ironic, right? Not like the Theo I know.” Harry huffs, “I'd have expected him to punch someone by today, but he's holding up pretty well.”
“But with Hermione in the picture? Oh, someone’s bound to run their mouth and say the wrong thing. Vivi, fancy a bet? “Aurelia grins, snickering to herself. “Which one lands the first punch? Hyperion or Theodore?”
“Hey!”
Genevieve hums, “Knowing Theo’s temper, I’d say he’d be the first to get physical.”
“Yeah, but Hermione is Harry’s precious sister. Didn’t he punch that Rochefort boy the last time he attended a ball in France.” Cecilia immediately points out, “Oh, regarding that…”
“Nothing bad happened.” Harry rattles off the explanation, nice and simple, earning a collection of puzzled looks. By “nothing” , of course, he meant a charming little meeting with the Rocheforts about their son’s stellar display of barbarism. Tossed in a harmless comment about Daddy Rochefort’s frequent visits to a business partner’s wife—purely informational. And maybe, just maybe, he lightly suggested that Mummy Rochefort’s habit of attempting to bribe Beauxbatons professors wouldn’t make for the best bedtime story in the press. But really, nothing worth mentioning.
“Alright, that’s enough betting. Why can’t any of you be like Rowle? He’s much sweeter than the rest of you.” Harry groans, slinging an arm over Theseus’ shoulders, “You’re my favourite right now.”
“Erm… T-Thanks, Hyperion. But—But sure, Cecilia’ll always be your favourite.” Theseus lets out a shaky laugh, the kind that tries too hard to sound casual, swallowing like his throat’s staging a rebellion. Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch or bolt with Harry lingering close—guess the poor kid’s getting used to it. Or just too anxious to move. Hard to tell.
“Ugh…”
The feast was, as expected, a spectacular bore. Nothing to do but quite literally pull out his notes—because why suffer in silence? The library? Pointless. Even the restricted section was a glorified paperweight for his kind of studies. But this was Hogwarts, after all, and Harry knew better than to flash around anything too… specific. Dark studies, arcane magic—best kept tucked away. Besides, pretending not to notice Dumbledore’s incessant, twinkly-eyed staring was tedious enough without adding fuel to the fire.
“Mr. Peverell—”
“Minnie!”
Minerva’s expression softened for a fraction of a second before she gave him a pointed look. It only fuels Harry to grin at her, “I told you to call me Harry. I like you well enough to let you.”
“Goodness me, you’re quite the handful… Professor Morozova certainly wasn’t exaggerating about your spirited behaviour. That said, I must stress that reading during the feast is rather rude… Now then, what exactly are you working on?” Minerva hums, tilting her head as she glances down at the notebook in Harry’s hands.
Harry took the moment to think what to do. On one hand, he didn’t need to show Minerva anything, on the other hand… he was also interested in her opinion on his studies.
“My final research paper on Transfiguration.” He smiles, watching as her eyes light up in interest. “I’m studying Molecular manipulation. I’ve had to check in both magic systems and muggle science to determine whether magic replaces molecular structures.”
Transfigurative Magic, commonly referred to as Transfiguration, is a complex and highly advanced branch of magic that focuses on the alteration of the form or appearance of an object or being (Switch, 1867). Unlike simple enchantments, which may imbue an object with magical properties, Transfiguration involves a fundamental change in the object’s physical nature. This discipline is traditionally divided into several sub-branches, including Switching Spells (the exchange of properties or positions between two objects), Vanishment (the removal or disintegration of matter), and Conjuration (the creation of objects seemingly from nothing). Each sub-branch requires a deep understanding of both the object being altered and the desired outcome, highlighting the discipline's reliance on precision and control (Switch, 1970).
In the context of magical science, traditional Muggle concepts of molecules and atoms can be paralleled with what this study terms Thaumic Particles or Arcane Molecules. These are hypothesized to be the fundamental units through which magic interacts with physical matter (Fenwick, 1937). Thaumic Particles may bind to or influence mundane molecules, facilitating the changes observed in Transfiguration. This dual-layer structure suggests that every object possesses both a physical and a magical composition, with the latter acting as the medium through which transformation occurs. [1]
While Muggle physics adheres to the conservation of mass and energy, magical laws are governed by principles like Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration. While Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration outlines certain limitations—such as the impossibility of creating food from nothing—there remains debate about how strictly these laws apply to all forms of Transfiguration (Goshawk, 1890).
Along with all of his multiple notes on the matter, with some references he’ll have to check out at some point. He hands it over to Minerva, who looks fairly hesitant with taking the notebook. All Harry can do is smile at her, silently insisting to let her read.
Minerva sighs softly, taking the notebook while Harry picks at his lunch. Soon enough, they’d be heading back to Durmstrang, thank Merlin. He missed the sharp bite of the cold sneaking past every warming charm, missed the castle’s unforgiving chill. Three days here had stretched into something unbearable—an eternity wrapped in pleasantries. Funny, really. That damned place had once been a prison, and yet, here he was, itching to go back.
Harry’s interests were, admittedly, a bit… peculiar. Not that he minded. He was well aware of his obsessive streak—Hermione and the rest made sure he never forgot. The curse of juggling multiple hyperfixations? Tragic, truly. But hey, it made him an excellent student (source: Katya Morozova, 1996). Downside? He got gloriously sidetracked whenever something shiny caught his attention (see: Aleksia Romanova, 1995). Honestly, the women in his life acted like his passions were personal attacks. Was it a crime to contribute to the discovery of new magic? Apparently, yes. Absolutely dreadful.
“This is amazing!” Minerva exclaims, turning to him with a glint in her eyes that he's never seen before. “Really now? Where did you get this idea?”
Harry smiles. “Inspiration.”
(There's an apple right in front of him. Then a knife in his hands. Death smiles beside him, staring at the fruit before they guide Harry's hand, cutting it in half.
A pomegranate. )
“Transfiguration is essentially the manipulation of atoms. To change one thing to something else.” Harry tilts his head, “Gamp's laws states five exceptions. Food, Emotions, Will, Magical energy… the soul. Those things cannot be transfigured. I played around with trying to bypass those limitations on food. But, like always, magic has its ways to limit wixen from infinite.”
Minerva nods sagely, “Yes. I suppose it would be a little reckless of you to try and break through properly stated limits.”
“It was… but… I couldn't really help myself. When one turns food into another kind of food, does it subtly taste different from the original thing it was transfigured into.”
(Teeth sink into flesh—crisp, sweet, wrong. Not an apple. Not a pomegranate. Sweetness floods his tongue—familiar, yet wrong. The taste twists, slipping between what should be and what was. Not an apple. Not a pomegranate. Something in between, shifting, slipping through certainty. Juice bleeds red against his fingers. It shouldn’t. But it does.
Behind him, Death hums. A quiet thing. hand, cold and sure, takes his own—fingers brushing the stain, smearing it. A smile—blurred at the edges, yet unmistakable—carves itself into the void.)
Minerva hums softly, “Your father once did something similar. Though, his transfiguration was perfect to the point he could not taste the lingering taste of the original fruit. An apple into an orange.”
(Hyperion wondered… what would happen if… he transfigured something else… would… would their insides be the same as the outside?
Try it, Death whispered, directing his gaze at the jittery and frightened animal clinging to the wall.
Yes… Yes, he should try.)
“Well… It was his forte.” Harry shrugs, “I’m more in tune with elemental magic and all sorts. Plus runic and mechanical configuration.”
Minerva nods, the motion slow, deliberate. “It is better when a child is different from their parents. It makes them unique.” Her goblet tilts in his direction, the firelight catching on the rim. “May you live the prosperous life your parents wished for you, Hyperion Peverell.”
A toast. A blessing. A curse, maybe.
Harry chuckles, the sound curling at the edges, and lets his goblet meet hers with a quiet clink. “Harry, Professor. It’s Harry for you.” The words slip past his lips, light, easy—like they belong to someone else.
He drinks—the pomegranate juice rich, cloying, staining his tongue with something that tastes too much like memory. The goblet lowers, and Minerva is met with his grin—sharp, wide, a smear of crimson lingering where the juice had been.