The outcome of the Potions class was without suspense.
When Professor Slughorn announced time was up and instructed all students to bottle and submit their potions, Regulus's finished product stood out on the podium.
The liquid in the other bottles was either the wrong color, cloudy with impurities, or—in some cases—emitting suspicious bubbles.
Only Regulus's potion, a clear light green liquid, shone with a healthy luster in the glass bottle, showing no sedimentation when still.
Slughorn picked up the potion and held it up to the light for a long time, his plump face beaming with undisguised delight.
"Exemplary!" he announced loudly, his voice echoing in the dungeon classroom. "Mr. Black, the quality of this potion has reached the Outstanding standard. Tell me, did you use any special techniques?"
"I merely processed them strictly according to the properties of the ingredients, Professor," Regulus answered calmly.
"The snake fang powder needs to be fully dissolved, the quill tips have the highest concentration of magic, and the neutralizing effect of the fluxweed requires precise timing."
Slughorn's eyes lit up. "You mentioned the highest concentration of magic—did you observe that yourself?"
"Yes, Professor, by sensing the faint magic emanating from the ingredients."
This caused a flurry of whispers. Sensing the magic of ingredients?
Was that a skill a first-year should master?
Slughorn gave Regulus an admiring look, did not press further, and simply nodded. "Come to my office after class, Mr. Black."
After class, Regulus stayed in Slughorn's office for ten minutes.
The plump professor enthusiastically showed off his collection of rare ingredients, hinted at the existence of the Slug Club, and gifted a small bottle of diluted Felix Felicis as encouragement.
Although it was a diluted version, it was still an astonishing gift for a first-year.
"Maintain this talent, child." Slughorn patted his shoulder as he showed him out. "Potions requires not just nimble hands, but also keen perception. You have that talent."
Regulus nodded in thanks. As he left the office, he put the bottle of diluted Felix Felicis into the inner pocket of his robes. Used well, this item could save a life; used poorly, it would be trouble.
Transfiguration class took place in a bright classroom on the second floor, where the windows were wide, the sunlight ample, and the air carried a faint scent of wood and parchment.
Professor McGonagall was already waiting at the podium. She wore deep green robes, her hair tied into a strict bun at the back of her head, and her expression was solemn.
"Transfiguration," she began after all the students were seated, "is the most complex, most dangerous, and yet most elegant discipline in magic.
It demands precise incantations, clear intent, and an understanding of substance."
She raised her wand, tapped it lightly, and a matchstick on the podium turned into a silver needle.
"Today, we start with the basics: Match to Needle."
Matchsticks were handed out, and the students began to try.
The classroom soon filled with various mumbled incantations and wand-waving sounds. Most students' matchsticks merely twisted and warped, turning into strange objects halfway between a match and a needle.
Regulus picked up the matchstick on the desk and examined it closely.
This matchstick was a stable material structure: the arrangement of wood fibers, the composition of the sulfur head, and the overall shape and density.
Transfiguration could alter this complete structure.
Rearranging the wood fibers into a metallic crystal structure, converting the sulfur into a silver needle point, all while maintaining the object's continuity and integrity.
He raised his wand and softly spoke the incantation: "Vera Verto."
The tip of his wand merely tapped it lightly.
The matchstick trembled slightly on the desk, then began a gradual transformation.
The wooden part changed from brown to silver-white, the grain disappeared, and the surface became smooth.
The sulfur head contracted and reshaped, turning into a sharp needle point.
The entire process lasted three seconds. When it finished, a perfect silver needle lay on the desk, its eye clear and its body straight.
Professor McGonagall happened to be patrolling near his desk.
She stopped, looked down at the needle, picked it up, and examined it against the light.
"Perfect Transfiguration," there was a hint of surprise in her voice. "One attempt, no repeated tries, no material residue. Mr. Black, have you practiced this spell before?"
"I've practiced the principles, Professor," Regulus replied. "But this is the first time applying it to Match to Needle."
"Principles?"
"Regarding the stability of material structure and conversion efficiency." Regulus took the opportunity to ask a question: "I've been thinking about something, Professor, may I ask you about it?"
Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow slightly. "Speak."
"The purpose of Transfiguration is to change an object," Regulus picked up the silver needle. "From a matchstick to a needle. But in this process, what exactly are we changing?
Is it the essential property of the object, or merely its superficial form?
If it's the former, has the match truly become a needle? If it's the latter, what is the difference between it and an illusion?"
The classroom fell silent, and a few students still struggling with their matchsticks looked up.
Professor McGonagall's expression became more focused. She stared at Regulus for a few seconds, then slowly said: "That is a question typically pondered by upper-year students, Mr. Black."
"But I am eager to know the answer, Professor."
Professor McGonagall put down the silver needle, walked to the front of the podium, and faced the whole class.
"Mr. Black has raised a profound question. The essential difference between Transfiguration and illusion lies in material continuity.
An illusion is a false image created out of thin air, lacking a material basis, whereas Transfiguration is the guidance of existing matter to reorganize along a magically defined path."
She picked up another matchstick, tapped it with her wand, and it turned into a feather.
"This feather," she held it up, "was once a match. Its material foundation has not vanished; it has merely been rearranged. This is why true Transfiguration requires understanding the essence of matter."
"You need to know the structure of how wood becomes a feather and guide this transformation process, not merely change the appearance."
She looked at Regulus: "Are you satisfied with this answer?"
"Partially satisfied, Professor." Regulus leaned forward slightly in his seat. "But that leads to another question: if Transfiguration is only material reorganization, what about the Vanishing Spell?
The Vanishing Spell makes objects disappear completely. Where does its matter go? Or is the Vanishing Spell an extreme form of Transfiguration, transforming the object into nothingness?"
This time, even Professor McGonagall fell silent.
The classroom was completely silent. Everyone looked at the professor. They didn't understand the significance of the question; they were just waiting for her answer.
Professor McGonagall took a deep breath: "The Vanishing Spell is N.E.W.T.-level coursework, involving matter and energy conversion and cross-dimensional magic theory."
"Focus on the current exercise, Mr. Black. The perfect Match to Needle is excellent—five points to Slytherin."
She walked back to the podium and continued instructing the other students.
For the rest of the lesson, Regulus could feel Professor McGonagall's gaze occasionally falling upon him.
Regulus remained silent for the latter half of the class. He knew the answer to the question, but he judged that Professor McGonagall's attitude toward him differed from Slughorn's.
The choice of faction.
After Transfiguration class ended, Regulus was stopped just as he left the classroom.
Narcissa Black stood at the corner of the corridor, her long blonde hair practically glowing in the sunlight.
As a seventh-year, she already possessed a mature elegance. Her deep green school robes were impeccably ironed, and the silver Slytherin badge on her collar was polished bright.
"Regulus."
"Cousin Narcissa."
"A word in private."
She turned and walked toward a secluded side corridor. Regulus followed. This area was far from the main hallway, with only a few high windows letting in light.
Narcissa stopped and turned to face him.
"I heard about what happened in the common room last night," she said bluntly. "You humiliated the Travers boy publicly."
"He brought it on himself."
"I know," Narcissa said, with a hint of approval in her tone. "Alge Travers is an idiot. His father's position in the Ministry of Magic was secured through marriage, not genuine ability, but that's not the issue here."
She took a step closer, lowering her voice: "The problem is, you showed too much, Regulus.
On the very first day, the very first night, you performed to that extent in front of all of Slytherin. Do you know what that means?"
Regulus looked at her calmly: "It means I'm not easy to bully."
"It means you've entered certain people's sight," Narcissa corrected. "Much earlier than you anticipated."
She glanced around to confirm they were alone, then continued: "At breakfast, Rabastan Lestrange—you know him, Rodolphus's younger brother.
He asked many questions about you—what training you received at home, how strong your magical talent is, and your views on certain matters."
"What matters?"
"You know which ones," Narcissa stared at him. "That Lord is paying attention to talented young wizards, especially those from pure-blood families.
Your brother's betrayal lowered the Black family's standing in That Lord's eyes, but now you have appeared—a younger, more talented Black who seems more aligned with expectations."
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