svetikya Chapter 22 Transfiguration
Chapter 22 Transfiguration
When Viserys woke up, Daenerys had kicked off half of her blanket.
She'd never broken the habit of kicking off the covers since Braavos. He was the one who woke up from the cold back then, and now the covers were thick enough, but she still kicked them off. He pulled them up to cover her curled-up shoulders, his other hand reaching for the timetable from the bedside table: Transfiguration in the morning, Potions in the afternoon. He folded it up and put it in his pocket. He left without making a sound.
The torches in the dungeon corridor weren't fully lit yet, and the smell of sulfur was at its strongest. Daphne leaned against the wall by the entrance to the common room, clutching the same class schedule as him. She didn't need to look to know he was coming out, just as she knew he would pass by at this time every day.
"Doesn't this person have anything to do?" he almost asked, but swallowed the question back.
"Good morning." She shoved the timetable into her robe pocket. "McGran is never late, and you'd better not be either."
"How long have you been waiting?"
"Not long after," she paused, "I always felt like you were thinking bad things about me."
"No, no, class is about to start."
I was just wondering if she had too much free time, and I was right. I shouldn't show it on my face next time.
The Transfiguration classroom was on the east side of the castle, and the door was already open when we arrived. Viserys sat down by the window on the Slytherin side, with Daphne next to him. A quill and an inkwell were neatly arranged on the table, and the old "Elementary Transfiguration Guide" was open to the page on the basic principles of Transfiguration.
When Draco brought Crabbe and Goyle in, the classroom was already mostly full. He sat down in the row behind Viserys and leaned forward: "Have you looked at the schedule? There's Potions class this afternoon. Professor Snape is our Head of House, and he always favors Slytherins."
Viserys nodded.
"You fought so decisively last night," Draco said in a low voice, "Your Potions class must be pretty good too, right?"
"I haven't tried it, but I've learned a bit." The potion was almost empty. Gringotts' burns, dragon eyes, Mag and Pomfrey had all reminded him that he couldn't rely on herbs every time. Valyrian dragon blood was just the main ingredient; he hadn't even started looking for the others yet. He needed this lesson, and not just for the grades.
"Then you can sit next to me this afternoon."
"Okay." Draco leaned back in his chair and turned to Crabbe, saying, "Move over there this afternoon."
A tabby cat sat motionless on the podium, its four paws together, tail coiled in front of its claws. Its posture was so solemn; he'd never seen such solemnity before—not the solemnity of a cat, but the solemnity of a human. He stared at it, his hand halfway outstretched…
"That's Professor McGonagall." Daphne didn't look up, her fingers still pressed on the pages of the book. "My father said she's a registered Animagus. Were you trying to touch her just now?"
Viserys withdrew his hand. "Um...no."
Daphne turned a page of her book, a very faint smile playing on her lips.
The cat transformed into Magellan in less than a second; her bones elongated, her fur receded, and her tabby stripes became the folds of her plaid robe. She stood on the podium, her gaze from behind her square-framed glasses sweeping across the class, pausing briefly on him. Cats don't look at faces, they look at pupils. His pupils had just dilated. She didn't say anything in front of everyone, but simply looked away and had the class pick up their wands.
"Transfiguration is the most dangerous and complex of all branches of magic. It demands precision, focus, and a complete understanding of the nature of the object being transformed. What you are to do today is turn a needle into a match."
She walked past each student, placing a silver needle on each desk. The needles reflected a very fine, cold light on the tabletops.
"The most dangerous aspect of Transfiguration lies in using oneself as the object of transformation. Animagus, the ability of a wizard to transform into an animal form, is one of the pinnacles of Transfiguration. It requires years of rigorous training, registration with the Ministry of Magic, and a clear understanding of the risks. Any unauthorized attempt can have irreversible consequences; once transformed into an animal, if out of control, you might forget that you were ever human."
The more something is forbidden to be touched, the more desirable it is to be touched. Viserys pressed his fingers against the silver needles on the desk, his face expressionless. But McGonagall glanced at him again as she spoke of "forgetting that you were once human."
"The incantation is Mutatio Incendium. The hand gesture is to turn your wrist half a circle to the left, then lightly tap downwards. Focus on your understanding of the 'match': wood, sulfur tip, flame."
Crabbe bent the needle, and Goyle was in a daze.
Draco completed the transformation on the third twist of his wrist. The needle lengthened and thickened in his hand, its silvery-white color fading to a light woody brown, its tip condensing into a dark red sulfurous head—it was a toothpick, not a match. He slammed the toothpick on the table, crossed his arms, and noted the half-word difference between a toothpick and a match, but he clearly wasn't going to admit it.
Daphne finished on her fifth attempt—a perfect match, with a rounded sulfur head and a straight wooden stem. She placed it on the table without showing it off, only glancing at Viserys' progress.
Viserys had already figured it out when McGonagall finished explaining the rules of spell pronunciation. The needle-to-match spell essentially changes the shape and material of metal; silver becomes wood, and sulfur condenses at the tip. This is much simpler than blood magic; at least polymorph won't turn the caster to ash. Damon's notes say that you only know after trying it, and the price was burning down half a forest.
Chant the mantra while rotating your wrist.
The needle began to deform at my fingertips, the silvery-white color faded, revealing the wood grain, sulfur crystallized, and a flame ignited. My first attempt.
The match burned with a steady, golden-red flame at his fingertips.
The image of the priestess shaping things with flames in the Gringotts tunnels flips up; a fiery spear coalesces in her palm, elongates, and sharpens, being shaped like metal. If transfiguration can change the shape of a needle, why can't it change the shape of a flame? Flame isn't a solid, but textbooks never say it can only be transformed into solids. The limitation isn't in the material, but in the understanding of the material.
He guided the flame from the match head to his palm. The golden-red flame danced irregularly in size and shape on his hand. Taken apart, light came from his veins, heat was absorbed from the air, and the burning itself was an extension of his will. Only when the three were combined did "fire" exist. Taken apart, it was put back together.
The flames began to change.
It stretched in his palm, extending from an irregular flame into a slender line of fire, then curved and converged, solidifying into the shape of a bird. Wings, tail feathers, beak—every line was a flowing flame, yet the overall outline remained stable, like a phoenix chick just rising from the ashes, not yet having learned to fly, but already knowing what it was.
The firebird flapped its wings and shot out from his fingertips.
Two feet above the first row of desks, Draco bent down so quickly it was as if someone had grabbed him by the back of his collar. Before the parchment even hit the ground, someone in the back row had already drawn their wand.
Daphne leaned back in her chair, her gray eyes following the firebird's trajectory, her lips slightly parted.
The firebird flew over the long table on the other side, and a boy fell backward, chair and all, the chair back hitting the desk behind him with a thud. A student next to him recoiled, his elbow knocking over his ink bottle, ink spilling down the table and onto the floor. Someone cursed, someone stood up and backed away, someone shouted, "What's that?" A girl held her textbook above her head, two wide eyes peeking out from the spine.
The firebird began to swell. Growing from a chick, the edges of its outstretched wings became unstable, and it began to fling out tiny sparks. The first landed on an open textbook, the pages curling and scorch marks spreading. Another landed above Crabbe's head, and a small tuft of his eyebrow disappeared.
Crabbe paused for a moment before reaching up to touch his bald brow bone, feeling a layer of ash on his fingertip. He looked down at the charred mark on his fingertip and made a muffled sound in his throat.
"Your eyebrows!" someone shouted, and several students around them burst out laughing.
Crabbe's eyebrows are gone. But at least it proves one thing: flames can indeed deform.
McGonagall's wand was already raised. She drew a minimalist arc in the air, the tip of her wand aimed at the expanding firebird, the spell unspoken. The light from the wand tip flashed and disappeared, the firebird's body transforming from flames into a harmless golden speck of light, lingering in the air for a moment before scattering and extinguishing like a dandelion seed blown by the wind.
Golden-red specks of light drifted slowly down from mid-air, landing on Viserys's desk, shoulders, and open textbook. They weren't hot, just lukewarm.
"Mr. Targaryen."
Viserys stood up. The whispers in the classroom hadn't completely subsided; several students were bending down to pick up textbooks that had fallen to the floor, and a chair had been overturned. Pansy whispered something in Millison's ear, and Millison's gaze went straight over the Slytherin table.
"From a needle to a firebird," McGonagall said, her lips forming a stern line. "It got out of control in a Transfiguration class where the goal was to turn a needle into a match, burning a classmate's textbook and sending half the class slumped under their desks." She paused for a second. "But you did transform it into something new. This talent needs to be controlled. Transfiguration doesn't allow unauthorized attempts in class, especially those involving fire. Stay after class."
"Yes, Professor."
Viserys sat down. Daphne didn't look at him; her gaze remained fixed on the spot on the podium where McGonagall had just stood.
"Given Professor McGonagall's character," she began, her voice low enough for only he to hear, "such a reckless move deserves at least a ten-point deduction. She's only making you stay after class. It seems she quite admires your abilities."
“It wasn’t punishment,” Viserys said. “It was meant to teach me. She always has, hiding all her gentleness behind her sternness.”
The lesson passed quickly, and most people still hadn't grasped the concepts.
McGonagall tapped the lectern with her wand, drawing the class's attention back to her. "Today's homework: Chapters 1 to 3 of the Basic Principles of Transfiguration. Due before the end of get out of class tomorrow. Class dismissed."
The students gradually stood up. Draco paused as he passed Viserys's table: "See you in Potions class this afternoon." Then he led Crabbe and Goyle out of the classroom.
Daphne packed her quill and ink bottle into her bag, glanced at Viserys as she stood up, and walked toward the door. She was the last person to leave the classroom.
The door closed, leaving only McGonagall and Viserys in the classroom.
"come over."
He walked to the front of the classroom. Morning light streamed in through the high window, casting a pale golden glow on the stone floor. McGonagall didn't make him stand there for long.
"The core idea of Transfiguration is understanding." Her voice was softer than in class, but each word was still spoken firmly. "You can't force one thing to become another; you have to make it willing."
She drew her wand and transformed a scrap of paper on the podium into a frog. It wasn't a blink; it was a complete transformation. The edges of the paper first gleamed with a damp sheen, then the entire piece softened, expanded, and sprouted limbs and a beating heart. The frog perched in her palm, blinked, jumped off the podium, and disappeared into a corner.
"This piece of paper has been here for a long time. It has absorbed ink, been crumpled, and been used by students to take notes. It knows what it once was, and it knows what it can become. What you need to do is not erase it, but use metamorphosis to help it understand that it can become a new form. Preserve its original memory, and change its form into something new."
Viserys opened his right palm, and flames rose from it, not from a match head, but from his own blood fire. The golden-red flames danced in his palm, of moderate size and irregular shape.
He didn't command it to become anything; he simply let the flame remain in his palm, just as he had when he first successfully summoned it in the library—neither pressing down, nor retracting, nor pushing it outwards, but simply letting it know that it was allowed to exist.
Before, I was trying to control it, always afraid it would go out. Now I don't care anymore; the fire will fly on its own.
The flames began to bend on their own.
It stretched, contracted, and solidified into the shape of a bird in his palm. Wings, tail feathers, beak—smaller and more delicate than the one in class, every line steady yet not stiff. The firebird spread its wings and circled him once. Its trajectory was steady, without scattering any sparks. It landed on his shoulder, its tail feathers drooping, flames flowing over it—its breath.
The firebird scattered into points of light on his shoulder and melted into the morning light.
McGonagall remained silent for a long time, staring at the spot where the light had vanished, as if she were watching another lesson from long ago, another student standing in front of the podium.
“There was a student who was just as talented as you,” she began, her voice softer than before. “In his first Transfiguration class, his needles were already flaming while they were still silver in everyone else’s hands. I’ve never seen a more talented student.” She paused, her eyes behind her square-framed glasses not looking at Viserys, but at some point in the air behind him. “He even surpassed me.”
She had taught him, and every step he had taken just now, including the one that caused him to lose control, was something that sent chills down his spine more than any praise.
Viserys knew who that person was.
"I will not become him."
McGonagall turned her gaze back to his face and looked at him for a moment.
"I know," she said. "I believe you because you and he are in different places."
Tom Riddle had probably never been woken up at three in the morning by a foot kicking off the covers, Viserys thought to himself, without saying it aloud.
"How is Leicester?"
"He's recovering quickly. Mrs. Pomfrey said his injuries weren't too serious and he should be able to return to class in about a week."
I'm going to see him.
McGonagall didn't answer immediately. She looked at Viserys, the freshman standing before her who had just nearly set half the classroom on fire. He said "I'll go see him" in a flat tone, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Transfiguration can be used for ambition,” McGonagall said, her voice slower than usual. “It can be used for conquest, for the transgression of death. You’ve read those books; you know what it’s been used for.” She didn’t wait for his reply. “But it can also be used simply to light a lamp for my sister.”
She took off her glasses, wiped the lenses, and put them back on. This was the first time he had ever seen her without her glasses.
"When I saw you protecting Daenerys by the lake, I knew you were a person capable of love. He has countless followers and people who fear him, but he treats everyone with the same fear he feels. And there you were, your three-year-old sister lying in your arms, your body ravaged yet still shielding her." McGonagall pushed her glasses back up. "A person capable of love wouldn't become him. You love her, I can see it."
The silence between the two was quiet, carrying the clarity that only those who have shared a funeral can possess.
"You have potions class this afternoon, don't be late."
She turned and walked to the podium, gently tapping the table with her wand. The pages charred by the sparks automatically reformed, the scorch marks rising from the paper and dissipating into the air.
Her wand paused at the edge of the podium, the fine burn mark still visible on the ebony surface, a trace left by the firebird's wing. She could have fixed it, but she didn't.
She left it there on purpose, like a book with a folded corner, to remind herself that there used to be another student in this classroom, and that person probably couldn't be fixed either.
Viserys walked toward the door, and as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard McGonagall's voice behind him.
"There's one more thing."
He turned around.
McGonagall stood by the podium, one hand resting on the edge of the table, a state of transition between weariness and trust. "You had the potential to be anyone. But you chose to protect with your own abilities. That's something I haven't taught any of my students; it's something you brought with you."
"I understand. Let fire be understood, not conquered. Dragons, fire, runes, all respond," Viserys replied.