Professor McGonagall walked to the blackboard and, with a flick of her wand, the words 'Matchstick to Needle' appeared. A box of matchsticks materialized on each desk.
Alister's eyes, however, weren't on the matchsticks. They were on the desk—which was now empty. His mind processed every detail of the transformation. A Tier 3 feat, considered impossible for a regular wizard in the current world.
Alister then looked at the matchstick, its small wooden body a familiar shape on his desk. He pulled out his wand and held it in his hand. He had his own way of doing things, but it wasn't time to draw attention to himself. If he didn't use a wand and chanting, he would stand out far too much. However, doing it on the first try should be fine and wouldn't be too suspicious.
He raised his wand, and with quiet focus, he willed the matchstick to change. His magic, under the System's flawless control, obeyed. The matchstick's shape and form shifted, its wood becoming metal, its head becoming a tiny, sharp point.
When he was done, the matchstick was a small, gleaming needle. It was a perfect, flawless transformation, a testament to his power and control. He glanced at Cho, who was still struggling, her face a mixture of concentration and frustration. He simply sat back in his chair.
Professor McGonagall walked down the aisles, her eyes scanning each student's desk like a hawk. She stopped at Alister's desk, her eyes widening as she saw the perfectly-shaped needle. She looked from the needle to Alister, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "A perfect transformation, Mr. Potter. Ten points to Slytherin."
The rest of the class looked at Alister, a mix of disbelief and resentment on their faces. He had just earned ten points for his house on the first day, and they were still struggling with their own matchsticks.
McGonagall walked to the next student's desk, her gaze fixed on the half-transformed needle. She gave the student a stern look, her voice a sharp command. "You're a wizard, not a baker. Your transfiguration should be perfect, not a half-baked mess."
She walked back to the front of the classroom, her gaze briefly returning to Alister. "It seems you have a knack for transfiguration, Mr. Potter. I expect great things from you."
A sharp, high-pitched bang echoed through the classroom. Alister's head snapped up. A matchstick on a neighboring desk, barely a half-formed needle, had just exploded in a small puff of smoke. The student who had been working on it—a boy with a pudgy face—looked at the smoking remains with wide, terrified eyes.
Professor McGonagall's stern expression didn't change. She simply walked over to the boy's desk and gave him a look that could curdle milk. "A mess," she said, her voice a low, dangerous rumble. "In Transfiguration, even a mistake should be instructive." She then turned her gaze to the rest of the class, her message clear.
The bell for the end of class rang, a loud, clear sound that echoed through the castle. Professor McGonagall, with a final stern word to the class, turned and walked out of the classroom, her movements as sharp and precise as a blade.
Alister, with his perfectly-shaped needle in hand, stood up and walked out. Cho, who had been trying to get her needle to transform properly, looked at him with a mix of awe and frustration. "How did you do that?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper. "I've been trying for an hour, and my needle is still a half-baked mess."
Alister simply gave her a small smile and continued walking.
Cho caught up with Alister just as he turned a corner. "Wait up!" she called. "I have no idea where I'm going."
Alister gave her a look and slowed his pace. They walked in silence for a moment, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.
"The dungeon," Alister said, his voice low and even. "Potions class is in the dungeon."
"I know," Cho said, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "I've heard the Potions Master is a bit... intimidating. But I'm so excited! I've read all about potions. They're like a form of art, aren't they?"
"They are," Alister agreed, his words deliberate. "A precise art. Like a surgical procedure."
Cho looked at him, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "A surgical procedure? What do you mean?"
"The ingredients, the measurements, the timing," Alister explained. "Each step must be followed with perfect precision. A single mistake can have disastrous consequences. A surgeon's work is the same."
Cho's expression was one of awe. "I never thought of it like that. You must be incredibly talented."
Alister didn't answer. He simply continued walking, his gaze fixed ahead, the air growing colder with every step. The light from the windows grew dimmer, and the torches on the walls became their only source of illumination.
"It's so creepy down here," Cho whispered. "Do you think there are ghosts?"
"I've read about them," Alister replied, his voice low and even. "They're a permanent part of the castle's history. Nothing to be afraid of."
They came to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door. A brass sign on the door read: Potions. The air was filled with a strange, pungent odor—old wood, damp earth, and something more, something Alister couldn't quite place.
Alister and Cho found an empty table near the back of the classroom and sat down. The room was a dungeon, cold and damp, lined with shelves of strange ingredients and bubbling cauldrons. The light from the torches on the walls cast long, dancing shadows.
A moment later, the door swung open, and a man with greasy black hair and a long, hooked nose entered the room. His black robes billowed behind him, and his face was a pale, unsettling mask of contempt. His eyes, cold and dark, swept over the students, lingering on Alister for a moment before moving on.
Professor Severus Snape, the Potions Master.
He walked to the front of the classroom, his movements as silent as a ghost. He stood before the class, his presence a heavy, oppressive weight. "You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began, his voice a low, chilling whisper.
"I don't expect you will truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, or the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I've had to teach."
His dark eyes swept over the class, coming to rest on a boy with black hair near the front. "Mr. Rivers, what would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
The boy looked at him, his face a mixture of confusion and fear. "I... I don't know, Professor."
Snape's lips curled into a sneer. "Pity. Clearly, not everyone can understand this art." He then turned his gaze to the entire class. "Your first assignment will be a simple Boil-Cure Potion. The instructions are on the board."
Alister, with his memorized knowledge, didn't bother to look at the board. He had already committed the entire textbook to memory. He pulled out his cauldron and his ingredients, his movements as precise and deliberate as a surgeon's.
He measured his ingredients with quiet confidence, his hands a perfect reflection of his mind's perfect control. He sliced the snake fangs into perfect slivers, crushed the dried nettles into fine powder, and added the mixture to the simmering cauldron at precisely the right moments. The potion turned from murky grey to a shimmering, vibrant pink. It was a perfect, flawless brew.
Snape, ever observant, noticed Alister's quiet competence. He walked down the aisles, his robes billowing behind him, and stopped at Alister's cauldron.
He peered into it, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second as he saw the perfect, shimmering pink liquid. He looked from the cauldron to Alister, his expression a hint of curiosity and something more—something Alister couldn't quite place.
Just then, a voice—a cold, mechanical hum—sounded in Alister's mind.
[Potion-maker leveled up to Tier 1]
[Status Updated]
"Five points to Slytherin," Snape said, his voice a low, chilling whisper. The rest of the class looked on, their faces a mixture of resentment and shock.
Alister, however, paid them no mind. He was in his own world, his mind a whirlwind of information. The act of brewing, the precise combination of ingredients, the flow of magical energy—it had all given him an idea, a revolutionary idea that could change his journey and the world.
He could use Potions to increase his physique, to create a concoction that would allow him to absorb magical energy into his flesh to strengthen it.
The rest of the class the constant murmur of voices, the bubbling of cauldrons faded into a dull, distant hum.
The bell for the end of class rang, a loud, clear sound that echoed through the dungeon. Alister, with a new purpose in his mind, packed his things with quiet haste. He ignored the clamor of the other students and the questioning looks from Cho. His mind was elsewhere.
He had a new path. But to pursue it, he would need to learn more, to go beyond what was taught in a first-year class. He would need access to advanced knowledge and potion materials—many of which were monopolized by pure-blood families and the Ministry of Magic.
He would need the help of a master. He would need Snape.
He knew he couldn't just ask for help. A man like Snape would only respect talent and competence. He would have to show him, gradually, that he was worthy of his attention.
As he walked through the winding corridors of the castle, his mind also turned to the larger problem. The world was dying because knowledge was disappearing, because wizards were losing their creativity and their ability to innovate.
He had a general idea to solve the problem of learning and communication. He had a plan that would require the help of Alchemy and the System. Not just any alchemy, but ancient alchemy—and as he'd read in the basic alchemy book, it would require knowledge of ancient runes.
He climbed a flight of stairs and soon could see the massive oak doors of the library.
Alister pushed open the massive oak doors of the library, and a wave of cool, musty air—thick with the scent of old paper and leather—washed over him. The library was a vast, silent cathedral of knowledge, with towering shelves that seemed to disappear into the darkness. He could see a few students scattered throughout, their heads bent over books. Most were Ravenclaws, a sea of blue and bronze, but a few were from other houses, their robes a flash of red, green, and yellow in the quiet, solemn space.
He made his way to the back of the library, his mind a quiet, analytical engine processing every detail. He found the section on Ancient Runes, a part of the magical world he had only touched on in his books. The shelves were crammed with volumes, some of them so old that their pages were brittle and yellowed.
He pulled out a handful of books. He found a quiet corner, away from the other students, and sat down. He opened the first book—a tome on the history of runes—and his mind, the System humming in the background, began to process the information.
But as he read, a new problem presented itself. There were so many books, so many runes, so many complex theories and applications.
He could read them all, but even with the System's help, it would take him at least two weeks just to process the sheer volume of information on the language and its application. And that was just the theory. He would also need to practice inscribing them, a painstaking process that would take even more time.
But there was no shortcut. He could only do it the hard way.
With quiet determination, Alister opened the first book and began to read.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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