Chapter 16: Choosing Sides
There was never much doubt how Potions would end.
When Professor Slughorn called time and instructed everyone to bottle their work, the results lined up on the front desk like a silent confession. Most of the glass vials held liquids that were the wrong shade, cloudy with impurities, or, in a few alarming cases, fizzing as if the potion itself regretted being created.
Only Regulus's sample stood apart.
His potion was a clear, pale green that caught the torchlight with a healthy lustre. When the bottle sat still, no sediment formed at the bottom, no haze drifted through the liquid, and no bubbles rose with suspicious enthusiasm.
Slughorn picked it up and held it to the light for a long moment. His plump face split into a grin so wide it looked painful.
"Exemplary!" he boomed, voice echoing off the dungeon walls. "Mr Black, this has reached an Outstanding standard. Tell me, did you use any special techniques?"
"I only treated each ingredient according to its properties, Professor," Regulus replied, calm as ever.
He nodded towards the work station, as if he were listing steps from a recipe rather than outperforming an entire class.
"The snake fang powder must be dissolved completely. The quill tips carry the highest concentration of magic. And the neutralising effect of fluxweed depends on precise timing."
Slughorn's eyes brightened.
"You said the highest concentration of magic. Did you observe that yourself?"
"Yes, Professor," Regulus said. "By sensing the faint magic emanating from the ingredients."
Whispers spread instantly, skittering across the classroom like quick feet on stone.
Sensing the magic of ingredients? In first year?
Slughorn did not press him further. He only gave Regulus a look of open admiration and nodded once, decisively.
"Come to my office after class, Mr Black."
Regulus stayed ten minutes.
Slughorn's office smelled of polished wood, dried herbs, and expensive pipe tobacco that never quite became smoke. The professor proudly displayed several rare ingredients, each one introduced like a famous friend. He hinted, with the practised warmth of a man who collected people as neatly as he collected trophies, at the existence of his little club.
Then, as if the world naturally rewarded promise, he handed Regulus a small bottle of Felix Felicis.
It was diluted, yes, but even so it was an astonishing gift for a first year.
"Maintain this talent, my boy," Slughorn said, patting him on the shoulder as he ushered him out. "Potions requires nimble hands, yes, but also keen perception. You have it."
Regulus thanked him politely.
Once in the corridor, he slipped the vial into the inner pocket of his robes.
Used well, it could save a life.
Used poorly, it could become a problem all its own.
Transfiguration took place in a bright classroom on the second floor, where wide windows let in generous sunlight. The air carried a faint scent of parchment and old wood, clean and sharp.
Professor McGonagall was already waiting at the front. She wore deep green robes, hair pulled into a strict bun, expression set as though she were about to cross examine the entire class.
"Transfiguration," she began once everyone had taken their seats, "is the most complex, the most dangerous, and yet the most elegant discipline you will study at Hogwarts."
Her gaze swept over the room, cool and exacting.
"It demands precise incantation, clear intent, and an understanding of substance."
She raised her wand, tapped a matchstick on the desk, and it became a silver needle.
"Today we begin with the basics. Match to needle."
Matchsticks were distributed. The room filled with muttered incantations and uncertain wand movements. Most matchsticks only warped, twisting into awkward half forms, neither match nor needle, as if trapped between decisions.
Regulus picked up his matchstick and examined it closely.
It was a stable structure. Wood fibres arranged in a predictable pattern, a sulphur head with its own composition, density, and shape. Transfiguration did not merely swap appearances. It forced matter to follow a new definition.
To become a needle, the fibres would need to reorganise into a metallic crystal structure. The sulphur would need to convert and condense into a sharp point, while the object's continuity remained intact.
He raised his wand and spoke softly.
"Vera Verto."
The wand tip tapped the matchstick once.
It trembled on the desk, then changed.
Brown shifted to silver white. Grain vanished. The surface smoothed. The sulphur head drew in, reshaped, and sharpened into a precise point.
Three seconds later, a perfect silver needle lay where the matchstick had been, straight bodied, eye cleanly formed.
Professor McGonagall happened to be passing his desk.
She stopped. Picked up the needle. Held it to the light.
"Perfect transfiguration," she said, and for the first time there was a faint note of surprise in her voice. "One attempt. No repeated tries. No residue. Mr Black, have you practised this spell before?"
"I have practised the principles, Professor," Regulus replied. "This is my first time applying them to match to needle."
"Principles?"
Regulus took the opportunity to ask.
"I have been thinking about something, Professor. May I?"
McGonagall's eyebrow rose slightly.
"Speak."
"The purpose of transfiguration is to change an object," Regulus said, lifting the needle. "From matchstick to needle. But in that process, what exactly are we changing? The essential nature of the object, or only its outward form?"
The classroom quieted. Even students still wrestling their matchsticks looked up.
"If it is the former," Regulus continued, "has the match truly become a needle? If it is the latter, then how is it different from an illusion?"
McGonagall studied him for several seconds.
"That," she said slowly, "is a question usually asked by older students, Mr Black."
"But I want the answer now, Professor."
McGonagall set the needle down, moved to the front of the room, and addressed everyone.
"Mr Black has asked an excellent question. The difference between illusion and transfiguration lies in material continuity."
She picked up another matchstick, tapped it, and turned it into a feather.
"This feather was once a match. Its material foundation has not vanished. It has been rearranged. Illusion creates an image without substance. Transfiguration guides existing matter to reorganise along a magically defined path."
Her gaze sharpened.
"To do true transfiguration, you must understand what you are changing, not merely what you wish it to resemble."
She looked directly at Regulus.
"Are you satisfied with that answer?"
Regulus leaned forward slightly.
"Partly, Professor. But it raises another question."
McGonagall's face remained composed, but her attention narrowed.
"If transfiguration is material reorganisation," Regulus said, "then what of the Vanishing Spell? It makes an object disappear completely. Where does the matter go? Or is vanishing an extreme form of transfiguration, transforming an object into nothingness?"
This time even McGonagall paused.
The classroom was utterly silent. Most of the students did not understand what he had asked. They only knew, by the weight of the moment, that it mattered.
McGonagall took a measured breath.
"The Vanishing Spell is N.E.W.T. level work," she said firmly, "and it involves matters of theory that you will not touch for several years, including matter and energy conversion and cross dimensional magical principles."
Her eyes sharpened with finality.
"Focus on the exercise, Mr Black."
Then, as if to remind the class that excellence still had a place in first year, she added, "Five points to Slytherin. That match to needle was exemplary."
She continued the lesson, moving among desks, correcting grips, calming nerves, and occasionally letting her gaze return to Regulus with an expression that was not quite approval and not quite suspicion.
Regulus spoke little for the rest of class.
He already knew the answer to what he had asked, but he also understood something else.
Slughorn's interest was warm and acquisitive.
McGonagall's attention was colder, sharper, and harder to predict.
Different kinds of power gathered different kinds of allies.
Choosing sides was not always about houses. Sometimes it was about which eyes you allowed to settle on you.
After Transfiguration ended, Regulus was stopped just beyond the classroom door.
Narcissa Black waited at the corner of the corridor, sunlight catching in her long blond hair until it seemed to glow. As a seventh year, she carried herself with effortless, mature elegance. Her robes were immaculate. The silver Slytherin badge at her collar was polished bright enough to flash.
"Regulus."
"Cousin Narcissa."
"A word. In private."
She turned and led him into a quieter side passage, far from the main corridor. Only a few high windows broke the stone gloom, letting in pale slices of light.
Narcissa stopped and faced him.
"I heard what happened in the common room last night," she said bluntly. "You humiliated the Travers boy in front of everyone."
"He deserved it."
"I know," Narcissa said, and there was a faint thread of approval in her tone. "Alge Travers is an idiot. His father's position in the Ministry was secured through marriage, not ability. That is not the point."
She stepped closer and lowered her voice.
"The point is you showed too much. On the first day. The first night. In front of all of Slytherin. Do you understand what that means?"
Regulus met her gaze without flinching.
"It means I am not easy to bully."
"It means you are now in certain people's sight," Narcissa corrected quietly. "Much earlier than you intended."
She glanced down the corridor to make sure they were alone, then continued.
"At breakfast, Rabastan Lestrange asked about you."
Regulus's expression did not change, but his attention sharpened.
"You know him," Narcissa went on. "Rodolphus's younger brother. He asked what training you have received at home, how strong your talent is, and what you think about certain matters."
"What matters?" Regulus asked.
Narcissa held his eyes.
"You know which ones."
Her voice dropped another fraction.
"That Lord is paying attention to talented young wizards, especially those from pure blood families. Your brother's betrayal damaged the Black family's standing in that Lord's eyes."
She paused, letting the implication settle.
"But now you have appeared. A younger Black. A more talented Black. And you seem far more aligned with what is expected."