The Art of Transfiguration

As the students filed into the classroom, the air buzzed with a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. The familiar scent of chalk dust mingled with the faint aroma of old parchment. Most of the Slytherins clustered together, their whispers punctuated by occasional laughter, while the Gryffindors sat across the aisle, their animated conversations barely muffled.

Blaise Zabini spotted Draco and strolled over to the empty seat beside him, sliding into it with effortless grace. "Good to see you, Draco," he said, his smooth voice cutting through the chatter. He leaned forward slightly, studying Draco, who was already engrossed in a well-worn textbook, its frayed pages a testament to frequent use.

Draco glanced up, his silver-gray eyes briefly meeting Blaise's. "Hey," he replied, his tone cool but acknowledging, before returning to his reading.

Across the room, Harry Potter settled into his seat next to Neville , who was nervously fiddling with his quill. Scanning the classroom, Harry frowned slightly. "Where's Ron?" he asked, concern edging into his voice.

Neville shrugged, glancing toward the door. "He was still in the Great Hall, probably finishing breakfast. He said he'd join us soon."

Just as the clock struck nine, its chime echoing through the room, the buzz of chatter faded as students turned their attention to the front. The air grew thick with anticipation. A sudden rustle drew their gaze toward a desk, where a black cat perched regally.

"Whose cat is this?" a Gryffindor girl whispered, but no one responded.

The door suddenly burst open as two boys hurried inside. Ron Weasley and Seamus Finnigan stopped short, scanning the classroom for Professor McGonagall. "Looks like the professor is as late as we are," Ron quipped, earning a ripple of laughter from the class.

The amusement was short-lived. The black cat leaped off the desk, morphing midair into Professor McGonagall, who landed gracefully on her feet.

Her stern gaze swept over the room before settling on Ron and Seamus. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "You're late, Mr. Weasley and Mr. Finnigan," she said sharply. "Shall I transform you into a clock so you can remember when class begins?" With a flick of her wand, a clock appeared on her desk.

Both boys paled. "Professor, we... we couldn't find the room," Seamus stammered.

"Then perhaps you'd prefer a map?" she retorted, waving her wand again. The clock morphed into a large, dramatic map that unfurled across her desk.

"Take your seats," she said curtly, dismissing them with a flick of her hand.

Once they had hurried to their seats, McGonagall turned back to the class. "Since it's the first day, I'll let this slide. However, from now on, anyone arriving late will cost their house points." Her tone was firm, though there was a hint of restraint; she clearly didn't want to deduct points from her own house so early in the term.

"Now, let's begin," she said as she stepped to the front of the room. "Transfiguration is among the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone caught messing around in my class will leave and not return. Consider this your only warning."

She paused, letting her words sink in. Then, with a wave of her wand, she continued, "Transfiguration is the art of changing the form and appearance of an object—or even a person." Her last words were more of a whisper, drawing the students' full attention.

"Just now, you saw me transform a cat into myself and then a clock into a map," she said, her sharp eyes scanning the room, lingering slightly longer on the Slytherins. "Many of you may have seen such transformations before. Some of you may have even tried them."

Her gaze narrowed slightly. "Be warned: Transfiguration is not a skill to be taken lightly."

She continued, her tone firm and instructive. "Transformations work only if there is something to transform. You cannot turn nothing into something. While you can summon objects, increase the quantity of what already exists, or change one form into another, creating matter from nothing is impossible—even with magic."

With a wave of her wand, the feathers on her desk floated gracefully onto each student's table.

"We can cover the remaining theory later," she said. "Let's begin with some practical work."

She turned to Neville's table and, with a fluid motion of her wand, demonstrated the spell. The feather on his desk shimmered, morphing seamlessly into a sheet of parchment. Another flick of her wand, and the paper reverted to its original form.

"Now, it's your turn," she said, stepping back to observe. "Each of you will attempt to transform the feather on your desk into a piece of paper. Focus, visualize, and remember: clarity of thought is the key."

The students raised their wands, concentrating intently. Some succeeded on their first attempt, a testament to their practice. Harry was the first to transform his feather, followed closely by Neville, Pansy, and Daphne. Even Zabini managed it with a smug smirk.

McGonagall's sharp gaze swept across the room, her expression unreadable. It was impossible to tell if she was proud of their success or annoyed by their preparedness. She knew exactly how some of them had been trained to excel at such tasks.

Her attention lingered on Harry, the first to succeed. A fleeting sigh escaped her lips as she considered the weight of his responsibilities. Then, with a subtle shift, her eyes moved to Draco, and her expression changed. It was no longer neutral but a mixture of confusion and disappointment as she noticed his feather remained untouched.

She had heard the rumors—whispers that he lacked talent, that he had been absent for three years from gatherings before appearing at Hogwarts. She hadn't believed them, dismissing such talk as mere speculation. But now, doubt began to creep into her thoughts.

Stepping closer to him, she spoke firmly, "You're not trying, Mr. Malfoy."