The journey from the Slytherin dungeons to the Transfiguration classroom on the first floor was a stark, sensory transition. Down below, the air was heavy and still, tinted with the greenish ambient light of the Black Lake and the damp, pervasive chill of subterranean stone. Up here, the corridors were washed in pale, cold morning sunlight that streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the drafty air. The stone floors echoed with the clatter of hundreds of footsteps, a chaotic symphony of students rushing to their morning lessons.
Harry walked shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco, their black robes billowing slightly with their brisk pace. The silver and green crests on their chests felt like targets as they navigated the crowded halls. Older students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw paused to point and whisper, their eyes darting from Harry's lightning-bolt scar to the Slytherin emblem on his robes. Harry kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, a trick he was quickly mastering.
"Don't look at them," Draco murmured, his tone polished and low, his aristocratic posture unyielding. "Let them stare. It only proves they have nothing better to do than gossip like hags. You're a Slytherin now; act like they're beneath your notice."
They entered the Transfiguration classroom. It was vast and airy, smelling of chalk dust, old parchment, and polished wood—a sharp contrast to the pickled specimens and freezing drafts of the Potions dungeon. The room was already half-full. The Gryffindor first-years had claimed the desks on the left side of the aisle, leaving the right side conspicuously empty for the Slytherins. The divide was palpable, an invisible line drawn straight down the center of the room.
As Harry and Draco took their seats near the front, the ambient chatter dipped. Harry felt the prickle of eyes on him. Across the aisle, Ron Weasley was glaring openly, his freckled face set in a tight, resentful scowl. Beside him, a few other Gryffindors leaned in, whispering behind their hands, casting dark looks at the Slytherin side.
Harry ignored them, setting his parchment, quill, and ink down with deliberate care. He arranged his supplies neatly, mirroring Draco's precise movements.
"Listen closely," Draco said, leaning in just enough that only Harry could hear. "McGonagall is strict. She doesn't tolerate fools, and she certainly doesn't tolerate dawdling. She's the Head of Gryffindor, which means she’ll be looking for any excuse to dock points from us to give her lions an edge. Sit up straight, don't fidget, and whatever you do, don't look uncertain. If you don't know something, look as though you're simply choosing not to share it."
Harry nodded, adjusting his posture and squaring his shoulders. "Got it."
At the front of the room, a stiff-backed tabby cat sat rigidly on the teacher's desk, its unblinking eyes watching the class. Before Harry could wonder why a pet was allowed on the desk, the cat leapt forward. In mid-air, its form shifted, expanding and stretching with fluid grace until Professor McGonagall stood before them, her emerald-green robes immaculate, her expression severe.
A collective gasp rippled through the room, but Harry kept his face carefully neutral, remembering Draco's advice. He didn't flinch, though his mind raced at the sheer complexity of the magic he had just witnessed.
"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," McGonagall began, her voice crisp and carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. "Anyone caught messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."
Her sharp eyes swept over the students, pausing on the Slytherin side. Her gaze locked onto Harry. There was no warmth in her expression, nor the outright hostility he had faced from Snape. Instead, it was a look of measured, intense curiosity, as if she were trying to solve a complex equation just by looking at him.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her tone perfectly even. "An unusual Sorting, to be sure. But let me be clear: in this classroom, your house colors matter far less than your discipline and your focus. I expect nothing short of excellence from everyone, regardless of where you sleep at night."
She held his gaze for a fraction of a second longer before turning to the blackboard with a flick of her wand, sending a piece of chalk scrawling across the slate. Harry let out a slow, quiet breath. It wasn't an attack, but it was a clear boundary. She would not coddle him, but she would not unfairly target him either.
After a dense, rapid-fire lecture on the fundamental differences between simple charm work—which merely altered what a thing did—and true transformation, which altered what a thing was at its very core, McGonagall handed out a single wooden matchstick to each student.
"Your task is to turn this matchstick into a needle," she instructed, pacing the center aisle. "Focus on the physical properties of the metal. The point, the eye, the coldness of the steel. You must impose your will upon the wood. Begin."
Harry stared at his matchstick. He drew his holly wand, feeling the familiar, comforting warmth in the wood, and pictured a needle. He gave his wand a firm tap and muttered the incantation McGonagall had taught them.
Nothing happened. The matchstick remained stubbornly wooden, rolling slightly on the desk.
A flicker of frustration threatened to rise, but Harry pushed it down. He remembered the freezing Potions dungeon, the way Snape had loomed over him, waiting for him to break. He hadn't panicked then, and he wouldn't panic now. He took a breath, adjusted his grip on his wand, and watched the others.
Beside him, Draco was working with quiet, methodical precision. On his third attempt, Draco's matchstick shimmered, the wood smoothing out into a dull, silvery metal. It didn't have an eye yet, and the tip was blunt, but it was a clear transformation.
"Not bad," Harry murmured.
Draco offered a small, smug smirk, though he kept his eyes on his desk. "You're too stiff, Potter," he advised in a low voice, careful not to draw McGonagall's attention. "It's not a jab. Roll your wrist slightly at the end of the movement. Guide the magic, don't force it. And picture the silver—really see it in your mind before you cast."
Harry nodded. He closed his eyes for a second, visualizing the sharp, gleaming point of a needle, the tiny, delicate eye at the base, the cold reflection of light on steel. He opened his eyes, rolled his wrist just as Draco had suggested, and tapped the matchstick with deliberate intent.
Pop.
The matchstick didn't entirely become a needle, but the transformation was undeniable. The blunt end remained pale wood, but the top half had narrowed into a sharp, gleaming silver point.
Harry lowered his wand, a genuine spark of satisfaction warming his chest. It wasn't perfect, but it was progress. He had forced the magic to listen.
"Well done," Draco murmured, looking genuinely pleased. "A bit rough around the edges, but you've got the core of it."
"Let me see that, Mr. Potter."
Harry looked up. Professor McGonagall had materialized beside their desk, her footsteps entirely silent. She picked up Harry's half-match, half-needle, examining the sharp silver point with a critical eye.
The classroom went dead silent. Across the aisle, Harry could see Ron Weasley leaning forward, his face pale, looking eager for Harry to be reprimanded or mocked.
McGonagall set the needle back down on the desk. "A very solid grasp of the theory, Mr. Potter. The visualization is clearly there, even if the execution requires refinement." She looked at him, her stern face yielding just a fraction, acknowledging his effort. "Five points to Slytherin."
Draco sat a little taller, a satisfied gleam in his cold grey eyes. Harry merely nodded respectfully, keeping his expression composed. "Thank you, Professor."
From the Gryffindor side of the room, a loud, frustrated snap echoed. Harry glanced over to see that Ron had broken his matchstick in half. His face was nearly as red as his hair, and he was glaring at Harry with a mixture of disbelief and bitter resentment.
"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said sharply, not even turning around to look at him. "If you cannot control your temper, you will find Transfiguration entirely beyond your capabilities. Kindly fetch a replacement from my desk and try again."
Ron muttered darkly under his breath, his ears burning as he stood up. He shot one last venomous look at the Slytherin desks before trudging to the front of the room.
"Pathetic," Draco whispered, his tone dripping with aristocratic disdain. "They wear their emotions like cheap cologne. No discipline whatsoever."
"Just ignore him," Harry said quietly, turning his attention back to his needle. He didn't want a fight with Ron; he just wanted to survive the day and master the spell. But the line had been drawn, and it was clearer than ever which side he was on. He was a Slytherin, and he would have to earn every inch of respect he got.
When the bell finally rang, dismissing them for lunch, Harry and Draco packed their bags with practiced efficiency. They joined the stream of students filing out into the corridor, the tension of the classroom bleeding away into the noisy chatter of the hallway.
"Not a bad start," Draco noted as they navigated the crowded corridor, his tone approving. "You handled her well. Kept your head down, did the work, didn't let the lions rattle you. That's how you survive them."
"She's fair, at least," Harry said, adjusting the heavy strap of his bag. "Not like Snape."
At the mention of the Potions Master, a faint, phantom prickle of heat ghosted across Harry's forehead. He reached up, his fingers brushing the edge of his lightning-bolt scar. The pain wasn't there now—not like the sharp, blinding agony he had felt when Snape had stared him down in the dungeons—but the memory of it lingered, an unsettling mystery he still couldn't solve.
Why had Snape looked at him with such cold calculation? And why had his scar reacted so violently to the man's presence?
"Snape is our Head of House," Draco said, misinterpreting Harry's silence as doubt. "He expects the best from us because everyone else expects the worst. You proved you can handle him. Now you've proved you can handle McGonagall."
Harry looked at the students parting around them in the corridor. Some looked at him with awe, others with deep suspicion, and a few with outright hostility. The whole school was watching him, waiting to see what the Boy Who Lived would do now that he wore green and silver. They were waiting for him to fail, or to prove that he belonged in the dungeons.
"Yeah," Harry said softly, dropping his hand from his scar and matching Draco's confident stride. "I suppose I have. But I think they're all still waiting to see what happens next."
"Let them wait," Draco said with a smirk. "We'll just have to keep disappointing them."