Chapter Nine

There was something cathartic in the way every tiny piece fell into place. Well, not really cathartic per se. Perhaps that wasn't the word I was looking for to begin with. On the positive side, I now had a needle in place of a matchstick, and could turn it back with ease too.

Extra practice was always a positive thing, in my book.

"Mister Umbrus, you actually managed," McGonagall was actually honestly impressed. It had taken me weeks to get it down, after all. Perhaps I would never have a future as a Transfiguration-Heavy wizard, but she couldn't help but approve of my work ethic. "Now, before moving onto the Mice to Snuffbox spell, perhaps you would be better served doing the intermediate step as well."

Was she afraid I'd blow the mouse up in a shower of...well, yes, that was highly probable. Better to play it safe than be sorry. The blood would be hard to wash away, and I'd probably traumatize the other students.

Thus, before moving to that spell, I'd have to transform a cube of wood into a snuffbox. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Or so I thought. Still, I took to practicing my transfiguration in the far end corner of the room, and the spots near me were left religiously empty to avoid proximity casualties. It proved to be quite the wise thought -McGonagall even gave me five points for thinking about it.

"Hello Ma'am Pomfrey," I said with an awkward smile, glancing at her defeated expression as soon as she saw me enter.

"Mister Umbrus," Madam Pomfrey answered with a shake of her head. "Transfiguration troubles?"

I brought forth my left hand, filled with wooden splinters. It had stopped bleeding a while before, but it was still a sore sight. It was bizarre how something as damaging as a shrapnel-torn hand received nothing more than a simple head for the infirmary, Mister Umbrus. If this had been any normal elementary school, I'd be sent quickly to the nearest hospital. As it was, barring the pain which had been dulled with a spell from McGonagall, nobody had raised more than an eyebrow. Hell, looking at it, I could see the splinters starting to drop by themselves.

Wizards had a passive regeneration ability, I reckoned. It was the only explanation.

"The wooden box refused to become a snuffbox," I said awkwardly as I took a seat. "It's not like I do this on purpose," I added. "I thought it had to be empty inside, and the mechanism? What about the mechanism? Which mechanism was I supposed to put? A latch? A cog? A something?"

"I see," Madam Pomfrey said, "Well, let us get you on your way then," with a flick of the wand, the splinters all dropped out and the hand mended itself as if it had never gone through a grinder of wood.

"I need to learn that," I muttered. "What's the name of the spell?"

"The Episkey, Mister Umbrus," Madam Pomfrey said. "It heals relatively minor injuries, so do not feel the need to stop coming by if you get seriously hurt. It won't heal other, more serious injuries." She raised an eyebrow. "Rest for a bit. The limb is healed, but give your body time to realize it's fine."

She tapped the back of my hand with her wand, and the pain that had been dulled flared back for the briefest of instants, before becoming like a dull throb. It lasted only the slightest of instants, much to my quiet hissing, and then it was gone. I opened and closed my hand with ease, and grinned as I was allowed to leave not five minutes later with the strict order to return to the Transfiguration classroom.

This time, McGonagall didn't even take away points for my explosive transfiguration. She just reckoned it was going to be a thing, and left me to my own devises. It was nice of her. Or perhaps I wasn't the first for which such things happened. Neville never managed to get through potions without melting a cauldron or making something explode from what I vaguely recalled.

Thus, clearly, I was merely a normal student doing normal student things. Potions was a double-lesson once more, but before getting to work on a potion, Professor Snape returned our homework to us, coming to a halt in front of me with my parchment in hand.

"Mister Umbrus," Snape's lessons were the last of the Friday afternoon, "Your latest report lacks in originality." There was silence in the classroom. Not a pin could be heard, or an owl hoot. Snape looked quite pleased with his own words.

"Considering they're mainly citations from other works, they never were original to begin with, professor," I dutifully replied. "Is that not the purpose of reports? To test our ability to use synonyms while answering questions?"

"Your wits will not help you avoid punishment, Mister Umbrus," Professor Snape answered curtly. "That will be ten points from Ravenclaw."

"I'd rather not avoid punishment at all, Professor," I answered. "After all, punishments are meant as ways to correct a pupil's growth," I added. "Only a fool would refuse a punishment meant for his sake."

Snape remained briefly silent, then he glanced straight at my eyes. I innocently returned the gaze. Whatever he'd give as a punishment was probably deserved, maybe tied to how I didn't check the others properly, but they had been the ones to ask to look at my homework, after all. It was true that I didn't really want to be punished, but at the same time I'd take it like a big boy. Becoming good at scrubbing cauldrons would serve me well in the future.

"I will be taking twenty-five points from Ravenclaw," Professor Snape spoke. "For every work that lacks originality, I will take twenty-five more."

"Understandable, professor," I answered with a nod. "I will strive to do better and make them more original."

"See that you do, Mister Umbrus," Professor Snape remarked. Then, he left my parchment in front of me. It was correct, of course. The mark on it hadn't even been changed. It was an Outstanding. The mark on Emma Vane's homework, eerily similar to mine, was a T for Troll.

There were the hint of tears in her eyes.

I looked at her, and she returned my gaze.

"The only marks that matter are those for the exams at the end of the year," I said.

She didn't take it well, considering she did not come by the afternoon homework-group I had unofficially started in the library. On the plus side, one triumphant-looking fizzy-haired girl swooped in and took a seat in front of me.

"Fay got a Troll in potions," she beamed as she said that.

"I see," I answered, nonplussed. "Does that make you feel happy?" I asked next, nonchalantly starting to scribble down the first line on the Transfiguration homework.

"Well, she didn't put in any effort," fizzy-hair said, "Serves her right."

"How interesting," I remarked. "To find joy in someone else's suffering is quite the vicious thing."

The girl blistered, and huffed. "That's not true. It just wasn't right, and now it is."

"Yes, of course," I answered. "You are right on that. However, why should you feel happy because of her pain?" I raised an eyebrow in her direction. Perhaps she was one of those blood purist sympathizers? Was Fay a muggleborn or a half-blood? I hadn't asked her. Maybe she was the kind of background character that picked on Hermione Granger, or on Luna Lovegood whenever they got the chance.

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing she was caught," fizzy-hair huffed.

"I'm not making it a bad thing, or a good thing." I mused. "She was caught, the consequences lie on her." I added. "You are not her, however," I continued most amiably. "So why should you feel happy about her being caught? Did you hate her? Did she commit some crime against you?"

Fizzy-hair looked at me, her eyes kind-of crossed. "No, no she didn't." She looked glumly down at her Transfiguration book.

"Then, let us speak of this no more," I said amiably. "Concerning Transfiguration, has Professor McGonagall said anything about the viciousness of wood when compared to that of a wooden snuffbox, or hasn't she?"

The fizzy-haired girl looked at me strangely, as if I'd grown a second head. "But wood isn't vicious. It doesn't have a viciousness factor."

"Ah," I blinked as the information filtered in. "That would explain the explosion."

I furrowed my brows. "Needles are made of metal, and metal has a viciousness factor."

"Yes," fizzy-hair said. "But...explosion?"

"Yes," I began, and then a grin spread on my face. "My transfiguration is always a bit explosive. I think my wand enjoys the flair of it."

I resumed my scribbling at the sight of fizzy-hair's surprised look.

Don't worry, little girl. I'll ensure you'll become a fan favorite side-character. Like that Daphne Greengrass gal who has no scripted lines, but somehow ends up treated as an important character.

Wait. Could she actually be Daphne? No, Daphne was a Slytherin, wasn't she?

Still, since she didn't look like any named character, she might have been the mysterious fifth girl of Gryffindor that was never mentioned.

Thus, I scribbled on.

All my life had been, unlimited scribbling work.