"Take these Canary Creams with you, Little Green—we really ought to pay something. Now Pister and I are off to the hospital wing to check on that idi—Bruce. Hope he's dead."
Leon and Pister left the greenhouse.
The five of them pulled on thick cloaks and headed for the castle.
"Merlin, I've got to say it, Sean—your Transfiguration is amazing!" Ron mimed the giant snowman, imagining learning such magic himself and then socking Malfoy in the jaw.
He grinned foolishly.
"Keep at it, Ron. Your Transfiguration isn't even at Apprentice yet," Harry pricked the bubble. Ron's eyes were already bright with excitement.
"I will, Harry."
Beside him, Justin studied the Canary Cream in his hand, hardly believing it could turn a person into a canary. Sean examined one too; he could feel the magic circuits at work inside, and it brought his mind back to the task at hand:
Push "living → living" Transfiguration up to Adept.
…
In the Hope Nook.
Sean flicked his wand; a beetle became an owl in the blink of an eye. It circled on beating wings, then turned back into a beetle.
Thick robes hung drying by the hearth; the warm sweet smell of pumpkin drifted among the chairs.
Sean heard Justin telling Hermione the greenhouse story; she gasped now and then, while Ron and Harry eagerly chimed in. It was noisy, but not in a way that grated.
With that experience, Sean could roughly judge his limits: at the edge, he could animate a snowman several meters tall for five minutes. If he didn't bother with fine control and only issued simple commands, both the snowman's size and duration could be pushed much higher.
"Strength" was a broad concept too: its snow could be loose and crumbly, or like years-packed drift—hard as gritstone.
Perhaps that's the idealism of magic: it answers the wizard's will.
Transfiguration, though, is exacting and cumulative. For now, among advanced forms, he only had snowmen and fire lizards.
Maybe it was time to learn something else—armors on the march, or a stone guardian…
The warm draft from the hearth riffled the vine-cuttings and notes on his desk. McGonagall's notebook flipped a page by itself; a familiar incantation caught his eye: Piertotum Locomotor.
[Piertotum Locomotor belongs to advanced Transfiguration. Its core effect is to animate inorganic constructs (e.g., statues, suits of armor) into mobile combat units.
Once activated, they can slash, charge, and perform physical attacks while the spell persists, and return to stillness when the ward breaks. The spell demands refined control; the caster must sustain guidance to maintain animation.]
From the professor's long description, Sean felt just how hard this would be.
For object → "magic," the logic holds:
The bigger the object, the harder it is;
the more complex the object, the harder it is;
the more complex the command, the harder it is.
To reach anything like the power seen in the Battle of Hogwarts, he still had a very long road.
For now, he needed to get to the Transfiguration office.
…
In the corridor, snow slipped from the edge of stained glass with a crisp patter.
"Oh—Little Green!"
At such times the Fat Lady always waylaid Sean to chat about Professor McGonagall; Lady Violet would add juicy details.
How, in her first Transfiguration class, McGonagall could turn a matchstick into a silver needle; in her second, a mouse into a snuffbox…
Listening, Sean felt something off—and then both ladies were staring at him, unblinking.
"You know, Little Green—if you told me you and little Minerva were related, I'd believe it—Merlin bless, imagine…" the Fat Lady sighed.
"Oh—stop—that'll break—" Lady Violet hissed; the Fat Lady clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Ah—ah, nothing at all…"
She said dryly.
Sean gave her a puzzled look; she started to stammer:
"Ah—ah—the weather—yes—what lovely weather—such bright sun…"
"There's no sun today," Lady Violet reminded hastily.
"Oh! I mean at least it isn't raining…"
"It is sleet!" Sir Cadogan bellowed as he passed.
"Wretched knight!"
Seizing the excuse, the three portraits moved off Sean's frame.
Sean sensed something: Professor McGonagall had truly been acting a little strange lately…
She was always writing—writing, receiving, sending—letters had become a daily ritual.
On rare occasions, Sean saw the signature: Rowland.
He'd seen the name somewhere, but couldn't place it—like a faint scratch in his past.
It only made him more confused.
The afternoon corridor hummed a bit. Sean stepped onto the carpet; the Transfiguration office was close now.
Then a broad, big-mouthed face with round bright eyes popped from the wall—bright clothes, tie, hat—sneakily tugging the rug.
Sean was about to speak when a Slytherin ghost bobbed up too—gaunt, glassy-eyed, silver-bloodstained: the Bloody Baron.
He glanced at Sean and let out a strange laugh.
Peeves startled so hard he nearly fell. He caught himself and hovered a foot above the stairs.
"Apologies, my lord Baron—Sir—m'lord!" he fawned. "All my fault—didn't see you—how could I— you were invisible—do forgive little Peevsie's tiny joke, m'lord."
He still didn't escape; the Baron gave chase.
"Done for—!" Peeves' wails echoed, making watching students grin. It wasn't often you saw him unlucky; usually he plagued them. Now, seeing him in a fix, plenty hurried after to see the fun.
Sean watched quietly. He'd been about to call the Baron by name—had he just… appeared?
Lucky, perhaps, he thought.