The morning air was crisp, but inside the Transfiguration classroom, the atmosphere buzzed with subdued chatter. Students shuffled into their seats, half-heartedly preparing for the lesson, their eyes darting toward the vacant professor's desk.
Harry, however, barely spared the empty chair a glance. His emerald eyes gleamed with knowing amusement as they locked onto the tabby cat perched atop the desk, its tail flicking with quiet impatience. Unlike his oblivious classmates, Harry knew exactly what—or rather, who—that cat was.
Leaning back in his seat, he smirked. Professor McGonagall sure has a sense of drama.
Beside him, Hermione was already flipping through A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, her brow furrowed in concentration. "We should use this time for revision," she whispered, disapproving of the class's casual chatter. "Professor McGonagall won't tolerate distractions."
Harry chuckled. "Who said she's not here already?"
Hermione shot him a confused glance, but before she could question him, the classroom door burst open with a loud BANG!
Ron and Neville tumbled inside, gasping for breath.
"We made it!" Ron panted, doubling over. "Can you imagine McGonagall's face if—"
He never got to finish.
With a fluid grace that should have been impossible for a mere feline, the tabby cat leapt from the desk. Mid-air, its form twisted, limbs stretching, fur retreating as it seamlessly morphed into the stern figure of Professor McGonagall.
The classroom fell into stunned silence.
"That," Ron blurted out, "was bloody brilliant!"
McGonagall's lips thinned, though a glimmer of amusement danced in her sharp eyes. "Why, thank you, Mr. Weasley. Perhaps I should transfigure you into an alarm clock, so you never arrive late again?"
Ron gulped. Neville shrank into his seat.
McGonagall's gaze shifted, locking onto Harry. "Potter, you recognized me before the transformation. How?"
Harry's smirk deepened. "Simple," he said smoothly. "There are only seven registered Animagi in Britain. I happen to know all their names."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she nodded approvingly. "Impressive. Five points to Slytherin."
A murmur of surprise rippled through the class. Hermione shot him a look—half irritation, half reluctant admiration.
Harry merely shrugged. It wasn't like he'd reveal that he knew from watching the movies.
With a practiced flick of her wand, McGonagall transfigured a teacup into a sleek tabby kitten, its golden eyes blinking at the students. Another flick and the kitten was gone, replaced once more by porcelain.
The room filled with impressed gasps.
"Transfiguration is among the most complex branches of magic," McGonagall stated, her sharp gaze sweeping the class. "Sloppiness will not be tolerated. Today, you will attempt a simple transformation—matches into needles. Do not disappoint me."
Harry flicked his wand lazily. His matchstick shimmered before solidifying into a gleaming silver needle.
McGonagall's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Excellent, Mr. Potter. Twenty points to Slytherin."
Beside him, Hermione scowled at her untransformed match.
"Having trouble?" Harry whispered, smirking.
She glared at him before exhaling sharply. "The spell's correct, but it won't change!"
"You're focusing too much on the incantation. Magic responds to intent—picture the match as a needle, feel it changing in your mind."
Hermione pursed her lips but tried again. This time, the match wavered before morphing into a crude, slightly bent needle.
Her eyes widened. "I did it!"
By the end of the lesson, both Harry and Hermione had racked up more than fifty points. Hermione looked smug.
Harry? He just enjoyed how easy it all was.
If Transfiguration was precise and structured, Defense Against the Dark Arts was anything but.
Professor Quirrell stood at the front of the room, fidgeting as he stammered through a lecture on curses. His turbaned head twitched every time a student coughed too loudly.
Harry barely listened. His focus wasn't on the words Quirrell was fumbling over—but on the thing lurking beneath his skin.
The air around Quirrell was subtly wrong. The kind of wrong that made Harry's magic hum in warning, a sickly-sweet disturbance that pressed against his instincts.
He knew.
Voldemort was here.
Harry's fingers tapped absently against his desk. He could end it now. One spell. One decisive moment, and the Dark Lord would never return at least this year.
But…
A slow smile curled his lips. That would be too easy.
He wanted to see how things played out. How Voldemort would try and fail, how he would scramble to reclaim his power, only to have it ripped away again.
No, killing him now wouldn't be satisfying.
Not yet.
Leaning back in his chair, Harry smirked.
For now, he would watch.
And when the time came… Voldemort wouldn't even see it coming.