Chapter 35 — Transfiguration Class
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, accompanied by Rosen's labored breathing.
"James! Hurry up — we're going to be late!"
"I'm trying!" James wheezed, his legs feeling like lead. He was running purely on willpower now; his body had given up several corridors ago.
Ahead of them, Russell's figure was already vanishing around the corner.
"How is he so fast?" James gasped. "Don't tell me getting up early to exercise actually works?"
"Obviously!" Rosen shot back between breaths. "Now move it!"
By the time Russell reached the Transfiguration classroom door, there were three minutes left before class. He calmly straightened his robe, caught his breath, and walked in as if he hadn't just sprinted half the castle.
That was the downside of not owning an alarm clock. They'd only woken up at all because Ice Cream — his ever-hungry cat — had started licking his hand insistently, demanding breakfast.
As he entered, Russell's eyes fell upon the small table before the lectern. Atop it sat a graceful tabby cat, its fur marked with perfect dark rings around the eyes — like a pair of spectacles.
Moments later, James and Rosen stumbled in, gasping for air, their hair sticking out in every direction, their robes wrinkled and askew.
"Who brought the cat?" Rosen's eyes lit up immediately. As a self-proclaimed cat lover, he crouched down and began to "evaluate" the feline like a professional judge.
"Nice markings, good posture… quite elegant overall," he murmured thoughtfully. "But I'd say it's still not as majestic as Ice Cream."
Russell silently covered his face. He already knew what was about to happen — but before he could intervene, Rosen reached into his pocket, pulled out a dried fish treat, and held it toward the cat.
"Fate brought us together, little one. Here, have a snack."
The tabby cat blinked once, then pushed his hand away with a swift paw. Rosen blinked, startled, and was just about to try again when the cat's body began to… shift.
Her outline shimmered like water. Her form stretched, bones rearranging, fur dissolving into wisps of smoke. The rings around her eyes solidified into the rims of real glasses; her tail vanished into the folds of a deep emerald robe.
And before the entire class stood Professor Minerva McGonagall, her expression as sharp and unreadable as a polished dagger.
"Oh, Merlin…" Rosen's face drained of color. His legs gave out, and he dropped to the floor with a thud, nearly fainting.
No one laughed. Every student in the room sat frozen in stunned silence. Watching a cat morph into a stern middle-aged witch was enough to make even the bravest first-year question reality.
McGonagall, unfazed, likely intended this as an introduction — a vivid way to spark her students' interest in Transfiguration. It certainly worked.
After all, Animagus transformation was one of the most advanced forms of magic in existence. Even in the entire 20th century, the British Ministry had registered only seven legal Animagi — and perhaps fewer than twenty total, counting the illegal ones.
"Mr. Cleen," McGonagall said crisply, addressing the trembling Rosen on the floor. "Please return to your seat."
Her tone wasn't angry — merely firm.
"Y-yes, Professor," Rosen stammered. He scrambled up, clutching his book to his chest, and half-jogged to the seat beside Russell.
"My heart nearly stopped," he whispered hoarsely. "Who could've guessed that cat was actually Professor McGonagall?"
"Silence," came the professor's cold command.
Her eyes — sharp as emeralds — swept the room. The chatter ceased instantly.
Satisfied, she nodded.
"Transfiguration," she began, "is among the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone who chooses to misbehave in my classroom will be asked to leave — and will never be allowed back. Consider that your first and only warning."
As her words sank in, she raised her wand.
With a single flick, the small desk before her shimmered — then morphed into a massive, pinkish pig that snorted and shuffled about the platform.
Another wave of her wand, and the pig vanished — the desk reappearing as if nothing had happened.
"That," she said, setting her wand down, "is Transfiguration."
"Merlin's beard, that's awesome!" James whispered, his eyes gleaming. "That's exactly the kind of magic I want to learn! When I graduate, I'll go back to the Muggle world and turn rocks into gold. I'll be filthy rich!"
Russell gave him a flat look. "And when the Ministry finds out you've destabilized the Muggle economy, they'll send Aurors to arrest you and toss you in Azkaban. Maybe you'll even get a Dementor's Kiss as a souvenir."
"As your dear roommate, I can't watch you suffer like that," he added solemnly. "I'll just report you to Dumbledore myself. Maybe he'll lock you in Nurmengard instead — at least there are no Dementors."
"Oh, thanks, you're such a great friend, Russell," James said through gritted teeth. "I know it's illegal — it was just a thought! Are you going to police my imagination now?"
"Every crime begins as a thought, James," Rosen chimed in wisely, keeping his voice low so McGonagall wouldn't hear. "Better safe than sorry."
James rolled his eyes, but curiosity soon replaced irritation. "By the way, I've heard of Azkaban, but what's Nurmengard?"
Russell smiled. "Think of it this way: Hogwarts is secondary school and university. Azkaban is postgraduate. And Nurmengard? That's the doctoral program — for only the most 'gifted' dark wizards. Founded by none other than Gellert Grindelwald himself."
James blinked. "You're saying Grindelwald's a PhD?"
"In evil, yes," Russell said dryly. "With honors."
"Yeah, right," James muttered, rolling his eyes. According to Russell's description, Nurmengard was an even stricter prison than Azkaban — basically "graduate school for lunatics."
While Russell kept chatting casually, his quill moved at lightning speed, filling line after line of his notebook with neat, precise writing. James, however, was hopelessly behind — too busy talking to take notes, and now staring at a mostly blank page with growing despair.
The topic was one of the cornerstones of Transfiguration theory — Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, proposed by the renowned wizard Chadley Gamp. It defined the fundamental limits of magical transformation, clarifying that certain things simply could not be created or altered through magic.
The five core principles of Gamp's Law were as follows:
1. Food cannot be conjured from nothing.
2. Living things and nonliving matter cannot be permanently transformed into one another.
3. Transfiguration cannot produce magical objects.
4. Transfiguration cannot increase the quantity of matter, though skilled witches and wizards can merge multiple items and treat them as a single whole for complex transformations.
5. Transfiguration cannot create something from nothing.
When Professor McGonagall finished her explanation, she set down her chalk and turned toward the class with that sharp, assessing gaze of hers.
"Theory," she said crisply, "without practice, is as useless as a wand without magic. You will never master Transfiguration by reading alone."
With a flick of her wand, she conjured a small box. Inside were dozens of ordinary wooden matchsticks.
"Each of you will take one," she instructed. "Your task is to transfigure it into a needle."
A murmur of excitement ran through the room as the students each took a matchstick.
"Wait," James whispered as he examined his. "If Transfiguration can't create food, then where does food actually come from? It's not like the house-elves make all of it, right? I mean, there must be hundreds of students — how many elves would they even need?"
Russell smiled faintly, his wand already twirling between his fingers.
"Oh, you'll see," he said. "Let's just say — house-elves are far more capable than you think."