Chapter 36 — Transfiguration
"You're right," Russell said calmly, not even glancing up from his desk. "There are over a hundred house-elves working in the Hogwarts kitchens."
Rosen's eyes widened in disbelief, but Russell didn't bother to explain further. His attention was fixed entirely on the matchstick before him, his mind turning over every word Professor McGonagall had said earlier.
According to his understanding, the essence of Transfiguration lay not in the wand movement or the incantation — those were merely guides. The true force of transformation came from within the wizard himself: his willpower, his magic, and, above all, his imagination.
The clearer one's mental image of the target, the more complete the transformation would be.
Russell exhaled slowly, focused his gaze on the matchstick, and began to picture — vividly and precisely — the image of a slender silver needle. He let the two shapes overlap in his mind until they were one and the same.
Gradually, before his eyes, the wooden matchstick began to change. Its surface shimmered faintly, its texture smoothing, its color deepening into metallic silver.
McGonagall, who had been moving around the classroom, noticed immediately. She walked silently up behind him, her usually impassive face softening into visible surprise.
Remarkable... for a first-year, she thought.
But just as the transformation was nearing completion, a sudden shriek tore through the classroom.
The sound shattered Russell's concentration like glass. The mental image of the silver needle evaporated, and the spell faltered. The matchstick froze mid-transformation — half shining metal, half ordinary wood.
Russell frowned in irritation and turned toward the commotion.
A column of fire had erupted from a nearby desk, leaping high into the air. One of the students had apparently miscast their spell — and in the chaos, their own hair had caught fire.
"What on earth is going on here?!" Professor McGonagall's voice cut through the room like a whip.
Her expression was thunderous as she strode forward, but with a graceful flick of her wand, the wild flames began to shrink, curl, and finally vanish entirely.
Russell leaned forward for a better look. The unfortunate culprit was Marietta Edgecombe. She was crying uncontrollably, her singed hair and half-missing eyebrows making her look both pitiful and — to the less disciplined — unintentionally comical.
McGonagall's lips twitched despite herself. The anger drained from her face, replaced by an almost maternal exasperation. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to laugh — but she held it in.
The rest of the class, however, was not nearly so restrained. Snickers rippled through the room, growing louder until half the students were laughing outright.
Hearing their laughter only made Marietta sob harder.
It wasn't cruelty — not really. The sight was simply too absurd. But to her, it made no difference. Her face flushed red, and tears streamed down her soot-streaked cheeks.
"Enough," McGonagall said sharply, her tone cutting through the noise like a knife. "That will do."
The laughter stopped immediately.
Turning back to Marietta, McGonagall's voice softened again. "Don't worry, Miss Edgecombe. Madam Pomfrey keeps a bottle of Fast-Grow Hair Tonic in the infirmary. By tomorrow morning, your hair and eyebrows will be good as new."
Marietta sniffled and nodded, visibly relieved.
"Miss Chang," McGonagall continued, "please escort her to the hospital wing."
"Of course, Professor," Cho said gently, wrapping an arm around Marietta's shoulders and leading her out of the classroom.
Once the door closed behind them, McGonagall turned back toward Russell, her expression regaining its usual sharpness.
"Now then," she said, stepping behind him once more, her eyes glinting with renewed curiosity.
"Mr. Fythorne — continue."
Faced with the half-matchstick, half-needle in front of him, Russell found it nearly impossible to visualize the completed image of a perfect silver needle again. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the transformation to resume.
Just as Professor McGonagall's expression began to show a hint of disappointment, Russell suddenly looked up.
"Professor McGonagall," he said, steady and calm, "may I have a new matchstick?"
McGonagall blinked in surprise but handed one to him without hesitation.
Russell took the new matchstick, studied it for a brief moment, then began again.
This time, it went much more smoothly. The rounded tip of the matchstick began to elongate and sharpen. The wooden shaft shimmered faintly, its color fading into polished silver. Within moments, the matchstick had become a slender, gleaming sewing needle — even complete with a delicate thread hole at the end.
A soft ding echoed in his mind.
[Transfiguration (Lv. 1): 12/100]
"Excellent work, Mr. Fythorne," said Professor McGonagall, a rare note of delight in her voice. "You possess a remarkable natural talent for Transfiguration."
"Ravenclaw, five points."
"Russell! How did you do that? Teach us, quick!" James and Rosen hurried over, their faces full of awe and frustration. Their own matchsticks had only managed partial transformations — the tips were sharp, but the rest still looked unmistakably like plain wood.
"It's all about focus," Russell explained patiently. "First, do this… then picture that… and after that—"
With his guidance, both of them made clear progress. Their matchsticks weren't perfect needles yet, but they were close — close enough to earn McGonagall's approval and a few encouraging words.
"Merlin's beard, I didn't realize getting praised could feel that good," James said, grinning as they left the classroom. "Maybe I really should start studying seriously, Russell."
They were now heading down the corridor toward the library to continue practicing Transfiguration. Seeing one of his more carefree friends suddenly motivated filled Russell with quiet satisfaction.
But just as he was about to respond, someone came walking down the hall from the opposite direction — Fawley.
Unlike before, the boy didn't stop to taunt them or even make eye contact. He brushed past, face expressionless, gaze cold and distant.
James frowned. "Ugh, that guy makes my blood boil. I asked him to wake me up this morning — he left without saying a word!"
"Have either of you noticed?" Rosen said quietly. "He's… different. Ever since he came back from the infirmary, it's like he's a completely different person."
"I've felt the same thing," Russell admitted, nodding. "Something about him feels… off."
"Relax," James said dismissively, waving a hand. "You're both overthinking it. He probably just got embarrassed after making a fool of himself so many times. I've seen it before — bruised pride and a bad attitude, that's all."
"Maybe you're right," Russell said softly, though his tone was thoughtful.
They practiced in the library until dinner, and by then, both James and Rosen could transfigure a matchstick into a needle almost perfectly. Russell was proud of them — his effort as a teacher had paid off.
After dinner, when the two invited him for a game of Wizard's Chess, Russell politely declined. Instead, he sat down alone in the quiet corner of the Ravenclaw common room, opening that black-covered diary once again.
The moment he flipped it open, he was startled — the pages were covered in dense, frantic handwriting. Nearly every line was a threat from the self-proclaimed Morgan le Fay.
He sighed and skipped ahead to the latest entry.
"You are not Arthur. Arthur is dead."
Russell frowned. The phrasing — eerie and direct — sent a small chill down his spine.
Was this diary truly… alive?
He hesitated briefly, then dipped his quill and wrote:
"Of course I'm not Arthur. Just as you aren't really Morgan."
Almost immediately, the ink on the page stirred. New words bled into existence before his eyes.
"I knew it. I saw his body with my own eyes. Then who are you?"
"Just an ordinary young wizard," Russell wrote, deliberately avoiding his real name. "If you really are Morgan le Fay, then prove it. Show me some evidence."
"Evidence? Look at the symbol on the cover," the diary replied swiftly. "That is the sigil of the House of Le Fay. No one would dare forge it — that alone should be proof enough."
Russell frowned thoughtfully.
"The House of Le Fay?" he murmured aloud. Then, raising his head, he called over to the pair playing chess nearby.
"Hey, James, Rosen — you two ever heard of a family called Le Fay?"