James ignored them and focused on the task at hand.
He started with colors. A deep burgundy quill with wine-dark shading. Then came a neon hot pink one that practically glowed. A bright yellow with polka dots in various light colors. Each transformation was precise, the colors and design vibrant and consistent throughout the feather.
Then he began experimenting with the shafts. He added metal-looking bases and gave some marbled effect while retaining the function. Simple at first, then increasingly ornate: Celtic knotwork, geometric patterns, flowing vine designs, dragon scales.
Each time he completed a quill, he tested it. Dipping it in his own inkwell, writing a few sentences on spare parchment, ensuring the nib worked properly and the grip felt comfortable. Some designs he adjusted slightly, refining the balance or the angle of the nib.
His most impressive creations were the metallic ones. A quill that looked like molten silver, liquid metal frozen in feather form, yet retained the soft texture of actual feathers. Another in gold, gleaming and precious-looking. A third in rose gold, delicate and elegant.
Several students near him had stopped their own practice to watch and were openly watching him. Anthony Goldstein's mouth was hanging open slightly. Terry Boot looked inspired, immediately attempting to copy some of James's techniques. Mandy Brocklehurst and Su Li were whispering excitedly about the vibrant colors.
"Mr. Goldstein, Mr. Boot, Miss Turpin, eyes on your own work," McGonagall called sharply. "Mr. Acton's success comes from practice and focus. You won't achieve similar results just by watching him. Keep practising if you want to produce similar work."
The students jerked back to their own feathers, chastened.
McGonagall cast an approving glance at James's growing collection of quills, then moved to help a Gryffindor whose feather had become droopy rather than quill-like.
Hermione, James noticed, was attempting something elaborate. Her feather was partially transformed, with complicated patterns trying to emerge, but the structure was unstable and the nib malformed.
McGonagall stopped at her desk. "Miss Granger, I appreciate your ambition, but you must master the fundamentals before attempting advanced variations. Transform your feather into a plain, functional quill first. Once you've achieved that perfectly, then experiment with aesthetics."
Hermione's face flushed. "But Professor, I'm trying to make something—"
"Mr. Acton has managed to create the quill within seconds; otherwise I'd have given him the same advice had he not succeeded," McGonagall interrupted, her tone firm but not unkind. "Focus on the basic transformation first and then the aesthetics."
Hermione looked like she wanted to argue, but didn't dare. She abandoned her partially transformed feather and started fresh, this time aiming for simple functionality rather than artistic flair.
The class continued in this manner. James worked through his box of feathers, creating an increasingly diverse collection. His final creation was a hand fan, transformed from three quills arranged and transfigured together, with delicate painted scenes on each panel and a carved handle that looked like ivory.
By the end of class, only Hermione and two other Ravenclaws had achieved perfect functional transformations. Most students had produced something quill-adjacent, but not quite right. Several Gryffindors had barely managed to change their feathers at all.
McGonagall surveyed the classroom with her characteristic stern expression. "Those of you who have not yet mastered this transformation will practice. This is a boarding school, which means you have to make time for independent study."
She walked slowly between the desks, her sharp eyes assessing everyone's work.
"Just because class ends does not mean your learning stops. I will be teaching new material in every lesson. If you do not practice what we cover in class, you will fall behind. Each lesson builds on previous ones. The knowledge is cumulative."
She paused for emphasis. "By your O.W.L year, it will be too late to study five years of material into a few months. Those who slack off now will struggle to keep up in later years, and many will fail to pass their O.W.Ls, let alone their N.E.W.Ts. I suggest you take your studies seriously from the beginning."
McGonagall picked up James's hand fan, examining it with evident appreciation. The transformation was flawless, the details exquisite, the functionality perfect.
"Exceptional work, Mr. Acton. Ten points to Ravenclaw for demonstrating mastery of the assignment and exceptional creativity in application."
She set the fan down carefully and dismissed the class.
James packed his things and left, heading not toward his next class but toward his practice classroom. He had a free period, and he intended to use every minute.
Time passed so quickly when he was immersed in magic. James worked systematically through fourth-year Charms material, then started on fifth-year spells. The complexity was increasing, the control required more precise, but he found the challenge exhilarating.
He was so absorbed that he completely skipped lunch, not even noticing the time until his watch vibrated with his class reminder. Herbology started in ten minutes, and the greenhouses were on the opposite side of the castle grounds.
James ran.
He burst out of the castle doors and sprinted across the lawns toward the greenhouses. They were long glass structures arranged in a row, each one labeled with a number. Greenhouse One was the closest, used for first-year classes.
James arrived five minutes late, out of breath and disheveled. He pushed open the greenhouse door and stepped into humid warmth filled with the smell of earth and growing things.
Professor Sprout was already mid-lesson, demonstrating something at the front of the greenhouse. She was a squat, cheerful witch with flyaway grey hair, dirt under her fingernails, and the kind of practical robes designed for actual work rather than appearances. Her face was round and friendly.
"Ah, Mr. Acton!" she called out as he entered. "Glad you could join us. Got lost, did you?"
"Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor," James said, surprised she knew his name.
"No harm done. Come on in, sit yourself next to that empty pot there." She pointed to an available workstation. "We're learning about Dancing Daisies today."