Harry Potter : Chapter 41: Changes II
Supporting the hiss that was still leaving Riddle's lips almost like a hand lifting a pebble from the ground.
And with a grinding of stone on stone, the statue of Salazar Slytherin finally opened his mouth, a thundering hiss answering Tom's command.
...
"Miss. McGonagall!" the jovial voice of the Deputy Headmaster welcomed the Gryffindor witch's entrance into the room, "I was surprised by your sudden request for a meeting, what troubles you?"
With the habit born of years of perfecting her Transfiguration skills, Minerva let her eyes wander for a split second, taking in the environment and trying to memorize every detail while she distractedly answered: "Professor, thank you for having me."
The office of Albus Wulfric Percival Biran Dumbledore was a small rectangular study located off of the first-floor corridor, to the right of a staircase ascending directly to the third floor.
A single, imposing desk dominated the whole space, illuminated by tall, leaded windows overlooking the Training Grounds and the Quidditch pitch, while against the walls on either side of the room there were tall shelves filled to the brim with books and uncountable knick-knacks.
Some were puffing, some were twirling, some looked like they just stopped moving, as if startled by Minerva's appearance in the Transfiguration Professor's office. In any case, there shouldn't be enough space on those shelves...
The Gryffindor witch slowed down imperceptibly in her walk towards the desk at the end of the room, her focus zeroing in on the wooden bookshelves. Enlarging charms?
Minerva had never heard of such a use for a spell meant for bags or tents, but if there was someone capable of adapting it, that would be Professor Dumbledore.
She'd have to study that topic, maybe replicating the feat of the Transfiguration Professor on the stone bookshelves in the Rùnda.
The Black King in one of her pockets dug briefly against her skin, as if purposefully reminding her that she was already ahead. I wonder what Rubeus will say about the doors once he sees them.
On the left side of the room there was a large, lit fireplace, with a couple of armchairs and a small couch facing it: all in all, it was a cozy working space, and the jovial attitude of Dumbledore enhanced that trait
"I'm here to help all students, Miss. McGonagall," Dumbledore's voice brought her back to the reason for her visit, "please, take a seat."
Even while offering her a place to sit in front of his desk, the professor made no move to summon a chair, nor to conjure one, and the eager smile he offered her was an invitation as good as any other.
With no flourish, Minerva brought to bear her fir and dragon heartstring wand, her mind quieting down as she reached the calm awareness needed to adequately perform Transfiguration. She was in her sixth year, and the N.E.W.T. level course had barely gotten over the Vanishing of slugs, but in that subject, she felt neither fear nor embarrassment in recognizing herself as the very best.
Immediately, Minerva discarded the memories of chairs she had seen in the course of her life, focusing instead on the very idea of a place where she'd want to sit.
She was there to talk with professor Dumbledore about what she had been able to perform, not to stay comfortable.
Out of nowhere, a tall, straight-backed wooden chair took place in front of Dumbledore's desk, the grain of the wood smooth and dark to the point it almost gleamed black.
With no hesitation and barely holding back a satisfied smirk, the Gryffindor witch sat in her conjured seat.
"How martial of you, Miss. McGonagall," Dumbledore studied the high-backed wooden throne with undisguised interest, "but very well done, as always, take 10 points for Gryffindor!"
Almost jarringly, Minerva realized that she couldn't care less about House Points: they had always been a part of her life at Hogwarts, a sign of how well she was performing and of how Gryffindor as a while fared against Hufflepuffs, Slytherins, and Ravenclaws.
What do House Point matter when Tom, Rubeus, and I have realized all of those things?
She had become an Animagus, why would she still care about something as useless as House Points? There were more important things, such as the reason she had asked to meet with Dumbledore as soon as she left the Rùnda after her almost uncontrolled display of Transfiguration.
Carefully avoiding any mention about the Rùnda, any reference to the presence of other people, or even to think about the location where the event had taken place, she described what she had done to the door, from the first change into resin to the rest of the changes that the wood had endured, and perhaps thrived in.
Link after link, she described the chain of transfigurations that had taken place, offering her limited understanding of what she had been capable of doing while openly asking for an explanation. She had studied Transfiguration with almost religious focus since day one, and she had never heard anything of the sort.
Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully for a few seconds, immediately noticing the lack of details about where this door was, but deeming the witch's reticence as something she'd either shed on her own, or not.
Hogwarts was a big place, with many decrets, if no whispers of such an extraordinary door made their way into the rumor mill, that would prove that Minerva had simply decided to explore a bit.
"You have an instinct about Transfiguration that I've rarely seen," the comment of the professor made her eyes widen with barely concealed appreciation.
"what truly held you back was a too rigid control over everything involved with this branch of magic: from the images you want to reshape reality into, to the utter lack of emotional investment in your creations."
"What?" the voice of the Gryffindor witch was almost strangled when she asked for clarification, "But I let my focus waver! Emotions shouldn't overcome the focus of Transfiguration!"
"What I say to all the first years is true: we bring into reality shades of Ideal Forms that could never be in this gritty world of ours." the tone of the professor became as animated as it always was when facing an interesting topic with an attentive student: there was a world-shaking joy in teaching that nothing would ever manage to mar.
"But our emotions, our hopes and dreams, those make each one of us unique, and that uniqueness is fundamental in giving strength to shapes that would otherwise remain as shades of something more."
"More?" Minerva had spent all her years of education with a steely control over her own emotions and thoughts, finding that they interfered with the learning process of new spells, and now she was being told that emotions had to be somewhat... channeled? into the magic? That was preposterous!
"Now," Dumbledore rose from his seat behind his desk and walked around, his lively blue eyes shining with pride, "that is not to say that we should let our fleeting thoughts interfere with a Transfiguration, but our experiences are the only thing that can deepen an individual's understanding, and deeper our understanding, better defined are the Ideal Forms we can call to."
A heavy frown etched itself on Minerva's features as she lifted herself from her conjured chair: "I still don't understand what I've done."
"Then you'll only have to practice, won't you?" the Deputy Headmaster gently pointed at one of the armchairs sitting in front of the fireplace.
"I'd like you to perform another chained transfiguration of that piece of furniture, for now, we won't care about the final result, but eventually, I expect you'll be able to direct the turning point of the change into something that turns the target of your magic into a better version of itself."
"Like using clouds to make an armchair softer and cool?" the wonder in Minerva's voice clearly showed just how much she was enthralled by the topic, and Dumbledore's smile grew in seeing someone else with such a pure love for his favorite subject.
"I would have never thought about that," the old wizard laughed merrily, "Why don't you show me?"
With a bit of trepidation, the Gryffindor witch readied herself to seek that strange balance point between steely control and the unmatched creative freedom that rampaging emotions could deliver.
The more I think about this, the harder it sounds. She hesitated for an instant, but only long enough for her free hand to pat the pocked in which the Black King Tom gave her was resting. She wouldn't hold back, and she wouldn't stop improving.
She couldn't allow the two Slytherin wizards to leave her behind.
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