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》 ‹ 04: transfiguration & talons

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☽ ➶ ｡˚ —— ❝ you didn't seem quite so confident when you were telling harry it was a sheep, ❞

——— (( 𖠄 )) ———

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HOGWARTS

SEPTEMBER 2nd, 1993

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THE WALK TO TRANSFIGURATION WAS filled with tense silence, broken only by Ron muttering something about tea leaves and doom. Harry looked lost in thought, occasionally glancing at the floor, while Hermione had her arms crossed tightly, her lips pressed into a thin line. Gwen trailed slightly behind, debating whether or not she should say something reassuring.

"Cheer up, Harry," Ron said suddenly, breaking the silence. "It's probably all rubbish, isn't it? Fred and George said Trelawney predicts a student's death every year."

"Comforting," Harry muttered, though his tone lacked conviction.

"She's not exactly credible," Hermione added, a faint edge of frustration in her voice. "Honestly, you can't base an entire subject on vague guesses and theatrics."

"Tell that to the Grim," Ron said darkly.

Gwen bit her lip. "For what it's worth," she said hesitantly, "tea leaves are probably the least reliable form of Divination. That book even says so, doesn't it, Hermione?"

Hermione looked momentarily gratified. "Exactly."

Harry gave Gwen a half-smile, but the tension in his shoulders remained. Gwen sighed inwardly. This was going to be a long day.

By the time they arrived at the Transfiguration classroom, most of the third-year Gryffindors were already seated. Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the room, her sharp gaze sweeping over the class as they filed in. Gwen, Harry, Ron, and Hermione slipped into seats near the middle, their earlier conversation still weighing heavily on them.

McGonagall's keen eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she spoke.

"You all look as though you've just been told your wands have been confiscated," she said dryly. "Might I assume you've just come from Divination?"

A ripple of nervous laughter spread through the class. McGonagall's lips twitched, as though she were suppressing a smile.

"I take it Professor Trelawney has once again foreseen the tragic demise of one of her students?" McGonagall continued, raising an eyebrow.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, and Ron muttered, "She said he's got the Grim."

"The Grim?" McGonagall repeated, her tone laced with disdain. "The giant, spectral dog said to haunt graveyards? An omen of death?" She straightened, her sharp features softening slightly. "I assure you, Mr. Potter, you are in no more danger than anyone else in this room. Professor Trelawney has predicted the death of at least one student every year since she arrived. None, to my knowledge, have ever come true."

The tension in the room eased slightly, a few students even chuckling.

McGonagall's expression turned stern once more. "Now, if we are quite finished with superstitions and melodrama, let us begin today's lesson. Animal transfiguration is among the most complex branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts. It requires precision, concentration, and a thorough understanding of both forms being transfigured."

She flicked her wand toward her desk, where a small birdcage sat containing a plump, ruffled pigeon. With a graceful wave, the bird transformed into a gleaming silver goblet, perfectly ordinary save for the faint outline of feathers etched into the metal.

The class murmured in awe. Even Gwen, who knew what to expect, found herself leaning forward. Seeing magic up close was entirely different from reading about it.

McGonagall turned back to the students, her expression firm. "Your task today is to attempt the opposite transformation. You will start with an inanimate object—a goblet—and transfigure it into a living bird. A small one, mind you," she added, her eyes narrowing. "No ostriches or peacocks, Mr. Weasley."

Ron flushed as the class snickered, and Gwen had to bite back a grin.

"Transfiguration is not to be taken lightly," McGonagall continued, her tone sharp. "Any misuse or sloppy execution can lead to disastrous results. I will be inspecting your progress, so take care to follow the instructions in your textbooks carefully."

She waved her wand again, and a stack of goblets appeared on each desk. Gwen picked one up, turning it over in her hands. It was plain and unremarkable, which somehow made the idea of turning it into a bird feel even more daunting.

"Piece of cake," Ron muttered, though he didn't sound convinced.

"I'm sure," Gwen replied dryly. "Because if there's one thing wizards are known for, it's their perfect track record with experimental magic."

Ron gave her a look but didn't argue.

"Now," McGonagall called, pacing the rows of desks, "begin by visualizing the bird you wish to create. Its size, its shape, its defining features. You must picture it in vivid detail, down to the last feather."

Gwen closed her eyes, trying to imagine a bird—a sparrow, maybe. Small, round, with little brown wings and a pointed beak. That part wasn't too hard. The hard part was translating the image into reality.

"Next," McGonagall instructed, "use the incantation Avifors. Enunciate clearly and execute the wand movement precisely as demonstrated."

Gwen gave her wand a nervous glance. Her earlier successes—getting sparks and making her wand glow—felt miles away from this. Still, she took a deep breath and pointed the wand at the goblet.

"Avifors!" she said, swishing her wand in a tight arc.

The goblet shuddered and let out a pitiful clink but remained very much a goblet.

"Well, it didn't explode," Gwen muttered to herself. "So, technically, progress."

Next to her, Hermione's goblet was already sprouting feathers, much to Ron's dismay. "Of course yours is half a bird already," he grumbled, pointing his wand at his own goblet. "Avifors!"

A faint puff of smoke appeared, but the goblet stubbornly stayed inanimate. "Brilliant," Ron muttered. "I've created... goblet steam."

"Careful, Ron," Gwen said. "Steam's a gateway to full-blown condensation. Dangerous stuff."

"Ha ha," Ron deadpanned.

Meanwhile, Harry's goblet had developed what could only be described as bird feet. It twitched, looking as though it might make a run for it. Harry sighed. "At least it's... sort of alive?"

"Think of it this way," Gwen offered. "If you're stranded in the forest, you could probably eat it. Multi-functional magic."

Harry snorted, but his focus returned to the goblet.

Gwen tried again, her wand steadier this time. "Avifors!"

The goblet wobbled, and to her astonishment, tiny wings began to sprout from its sides. They flapped weakly, and while the goblet still didn't resemble a bird, it felt like a step in the right direction.

"Well done, Miss Collins," McGonagall said, appearing behind her. "Not perfect, but promising. Keep refining your visualization."

"Yes, Professor," Gwen said, suppressing a grin. McGonagall's approval was as rare as it was encouraging.

"Gwen!" Hermione hissed, gesturing at her own desk. "Look!"

Hermione's goblet had transformed completely into a sparrow, which sat chirping contentedly on her desk.

"Show-off," Ron muttered, waving his wand again with exaggerated determination.

By the end of the lesson, most students had achieved varying degrees of success. Gwen's goblet had transformed into what could generously be called a bird—a lumpy, awkward thing that flapped its uneven wings like it resented being alive.

"Honestly, I think it's an improvement," she quipped, earning a laugh from Harry and Ron.

"Better than mine," Ron said, holding up a goblet with feathers glued to its sides. "This one looks like it's molting before it's even alive."

McGonagall clapped her hands. "That will do for today. For homework, practice your visualization techniques. Next week, we will refine this spell further. Class dismissed."

As the students packed up their things, Gwen felt a strange mix of pride and relief. She might not be perfect at magic yet, but at least she wasn't failing spectacularly.

And considering how only a few days ago she was convinced this was all just fiction, that was a complete win.

——— (( 𖠄 )) ———

THE GREAT HALL BUZZED WITH its usual midday chatter as Gwen slid onto the bench beside Hermione. Across from them, Ron was poking at his stew like it had personally offended him, while Harry still looked a bit pale from the morning's Divination disaster. Gwen, for her part, was resisting the urge to dramatically predict the fall of capitalism just to see how much chaos she could cause.

"Ron, cheer up," Hermione said, nudging a steaming dish of stew toward him. "You heard what Professor McGonagall said."

Ron half-heartedly spooned some onto his plate but made no move to eat. Instead, he leaned in, lowering his voice.

"Harry, you haven't seen a great black dog anywhere, have you?"

Gwen nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. Oh, Ron. Oh, sweet summer child.

"Yeah, I have," Harry answered. "I saw one the night I left the Dursleys'."

Ron's fork clattered to the table like he'd just been told Fred and George had sworn off pranks.

"Probably a stray," Hermione said dismissively.

Ron turned to her, scandalized. "Hermione, if Harry's seen a Grim, that's—that's bad! My uncle Bilius saw one and he died twenty-four hours later!"

Gwen pressed her lips together to stop herself from blurting out, Yeah, and my great-uncle watched The Ring and somehow managed to make it past the seven-day curse. Spooky.

"Coincidence," Hermione said airily, pouring herself more pumpkin juice.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" Ron hissed. "Grims scare the living daylights out of most wizards!"

"There you are, then," Hermione said, as if that settled it. "They see the Grim and die of fright. The Grim's not an omen, it's the cause of death! And Harry's still with us because he's not stupid enough to see one and think, Right, well, I'd better kick the bucket then!"

Gwen let out a snort that she barely disguised as a cough. God, I missed this dialogue.

Ron gaped at Hermione, then at Harry, then back at Hermione, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Hermione, unfazed, pulled out her Arithmancy book and propped it against the juice jug.

"I think Divination seems very woolly," she remarked, flipping through the pages. "A lot of guesswork, if you ask me."

"There was nothing woolly about the Grim in that cup!" Ron shot back.

"You didn't seem quite so confident when you were telling Harry it was a sheep," Hermione said, her voice almost too sweet.

Gwen turned to Harry. "I feel like we should start selling tickets. This is better than Love Island."

Harry gave her a bewildered look, but Ron was still spluttering. "Professor Trelawney said you didn't have the right aura! You just don't like being bad at something for a change!"

And that was it. The final boss battle had been unlocked.

Hermione slammed her book onto the table with such force that bits of stew actually jumped off Ron's plate.

"If being good at Divination means I have to pretend to see death omens in a lump of tea leaves, I'm not sure I'll be studying it much longer!" she snapped. "That lesson was absolute rubbish compared with my Arithmancy class!"

She snatched up her bag and stormed off, leaving behind a stunned Ron, a mildly entertained Gwen, and a Harry who looked like he was reconsidering all his life choices.

Ron stared after her. "Mental. Completely mental."

Gwen, shaking her head, popped a bite of bread into her mouth. "That," she said, "was the academic equivalent of rage-quitting."

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "So... about the Grim."

Ron looked at him gravely. "Harry. You should really—"

"Relax," Gwen cut in, rolling her eyes. "You're acting like he saw the actual Grim Reaper. Trust me, if Death wanted to chat, I think he'd be a little more direct. Maybe send a formal invitation. 'Dear Mr. Potter, congratulations on your survival thus far, let's discuss your extended warranty.'"

Harry gave her an amused look. Ron, however, did not look convinced.

——— (( 𖠄 )) ———

AFTER LUNCH, THE FRESH AIR was a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of the castle. The sky stretched out in an endless gray expanse, and the damp grass beneath their feet made a satisfying squelch with every step.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked in tense silence down to Hagrid's hut, but Gwen—trailing just slightly behind them—was far too entertained by the developing drama to let the awkwardness weigh her down. Ron and Hermione still weren't speaking, which, from Gwen's experience reading far too many fanfictions, meant this was either a major turning point or the prelude to another one of their legendary arguments.

She glanced ahead, spotting three unmistakable figures. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle strolled along, Malfoy gesturing animatedly as the other two chortled beside him. Gwen didn't need to hear what they were saying to know they were already preparing some sort of torment for the lesson.

This was about to be interesting.

Hagrid stood outside his hut, beaming at them. His enormous moleskin coat made him look even larger, and Fang sat at his side, wagging his tail.

"C'mon, now, get a move on!" Hagrid called enthusiastically. "Got a real treat for yeh today! Great lesson comin' up! Everyone here? Right, follow me!"​

Gwen nearly laughed. Oh, Hagrid. I love you so much, but I don't think the word "treat" means what you think it means.

They followed him around the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, walking until they reached a paddock that was suspiciously empty. Gwen knew what was coming, but she pretended to glance around like everyone else, doing her best hmm, what could possibly be in here? face.

"Everyone gather 'round the fence here!" Hagrid said. "That's it—make sure yeh can see—now, firs' thing yeh'll want ter do is open yer books—"

"How?" came Malfoy's drawl.

Gwen rolled her eyes. Oh, here we go.

"Eh?" Hagrid said, confused.

"How do we open our books?" Malfoy repeated, holding up The Monster Book of Monsters, which was bound shut with rope. Around the paddock, various students pulled out their own copies, similarly restrained—belts, bags, even binder clips.

Gwen, having already known how to deal with the book, pulled hers out effortlessly, flipping through the pages as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Malfoy caught sight of this and scowled.

"You've got to stroke 'em," Hagrid said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He took Hermione's book, ran a finger down the spine, and the book shuddered before relaxing in his hand.

"Oh, how silly we've all been!" Malfoy sneered. "We should have stroked them! Why didn't we guess?"

Gwen, without missing a beat, muttered under her breath, "Sounds like a skill issue."

Ron snorted beside her, but Malfoy didn't seem to hear.

"I—I thought they were funny," Hagrid said uncertainly to Hermione.

"Oh, tremendously funny," Malfoy said. "Really witty, giving us books that try and rip our hands off!"​

Gwen resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard they might get stuck that way. Oh no, the rich pureblood heir faced minor inconvenience. Tragic.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry said quietly.

Hagrid, looking slightly dejected, shook himself back into focus. "Righ' then, so yeh've got yer books an'—an'—now yeh need the Magical Creatures. Yeah. So I'll go an' get 'em. Hang on..."​

As he disappeared into the trees, Gwen folded her arms, glancing around at the other students. She barely had time to prepare before Malfoy spoke again, loudly.

"God, this place is going to the dogs," he said. "That oaf teaching classes, my father'll have a fit when I tell him."​

Gwen turned her head, fixing him with an unimpressed look. "You could just, I don't know, drop out if it's so unbearable. I hear Beauxbatons might be more your speed."

Harry snorted. Malfoy, however, looked unimpressed. "And who are you exactly?" he drawled, eyeing her with disdain.

"Gwen Collins," she said cheerfully. "New student and your new biggest annoyance."

Before Malfoy could retort, Lavender let out a high-pitched squeal. "Oooooooh!" she pointed toward the opposite side of the paddock.

Gwen grinned, watching as the hippogriffs trotted toward them—majestic, powerful, and genuinely breathtaking. The students collectively took a step back.

Hagrid, looking as proud as ever, beamed at them.

"Hippogriffs!" he roared. "Beau'iful, aren' they?"​

Gwen, resisting every urge to yell YES, HAGRID, THEY'RE MAGNIFICENT, instead turned to Ron and whispered, "Ten Galleons says Malfoy messes this up."

Ron grinned. "Oh, definitely."

"Now, firs' thing yeh gotta know abou' hippogriffs is, they're proud," Hagrid explained. "Easily offended, hippogriffs are. Don't never insult one, 'cause it might be the last thing yeh do."

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were muttering between themselves, clearly ignoring him. Gwen shook her head.

"Yeh always wait fer the hippogriff ter make the firs' move," Hagrid continued. "Yeh walk toward him, an' yeh bow, an' yeh wait. If he bows back, yeh're allowed ter touch him. If he doesn' bow, then get away from him sharpish, 'cause those talons hurt. Right—who wants ter go first?"​

Gwen knew exactly what was about to happen, but that didn't make it any less entertaining when everyone took a collective step back.

No one moved.

"No one?" Hagrid looked almost offended.

"I'll do it," Harry said.

The class inhaled sharply.

"Oooh, no, Harry, remember your tea leaves!" Lavender whispered.

Gwen, unable to help herself, muttered, "Forget the Grim, this is his main character energy kicking in."​

Harry ignored the comments and climbed into the paddock.

Gwen watched with held breath as Harry hesitantly approached Buckbeak, following Hagrid's instructions.

Bowing.

Waiting.

More waiting.

And then, to everyone's relief (and Malfoy's clear disappointment), Buckbeak dipped his head in return.

Hagrid clapped Harry on the back so hard Gwen was sure she heard something pop.

"Tha's it! Well done, Harry!"

And then, because Hagrid never did things in halves—

"Go on, hop on! Give 'im a ride!"

Gwen barely kept her composure as Harry was promptly thrown onto Buckbeak's back and launched into the sky.

"Bro really just unlocked the 'Flying Mount' feature," she muttered.

Ron gave her a look. "The what?"

Harry, to his credit, didn't die. He actually looked kind of like he was enjoying himself, which was more than could be said for about half the Gryffindor-Slytherin class, who were still recovering from the shock of Hagrid's impromptu amusement park ride. (*wink wink* Flight of the Hippogriff)

When Buckbeak finally landed, Harry stumbled off, looking dazed but unharmed.

Malfoy then stepped forward with an air of superiority. "I'll have a go," he said lazily, swaggering up to Buckbeak like he was about to inspect a new broomstick.

Gwen and the rest of the Gryffindors exchanged glances. Oh, this is gonna be good.

Malfoy barely inclined his head in what could only be described as the laziest excuse for a bow. Buckbeak, sensing the disrespect, took a step forward, his wings ruffling.

"You're not dangerous," Malfoy said loudly. "You're just a great ugly brute, aren't you?"

There was a beat of silence.

And then—

It happened so fast that Gwen barely had time to react. One second, Malfoy was posturing. The next, Buckbeak reared back, wings spread wide, and let out a furious screech. Malfoy yelped as claws slashed toward him, barely nicking his arm before he went tumbling into the grass with a scream that could probably be heard back in London.

Gwen exhaled sharply. "And the Oscar goes to—"

Malfoy, for his part, was curled in the grass clutching his arm like a football player who really wanted that penalty called. "I'm dying!" he howled. "I'm—he's killed me! I—I'll have you fired for this, you great oaf!"

"It barely scratched you." Gwen deadpanned. "Tell me you've never played a contact sport without telling me."

Pansy Parkinson, of course, was already shrieking about 'poor Draco,' while Crabbe and Goyle stood there like confused bricks.

Hagrid, pale as a ghost, was already rushing forward to scoop Malfoy up. Hermione held the paddock gate open as he carried the still-wailing Slytherin toward the castle, the rest of the class trailing behind.

"Y'know," Gwen mused as they walked, "for someone who acts like he's the heir of Salazar Slytherin himself, Malfoy sure does go down like a sack of potatoes at the slightest inconvenience."

Ron barked out a laugh. "Yeah, he's really milking it, isn't he?"

"Reckon Madam Pomfrey can heal his arm in about two seconds," Harry added. "Not that he won't drag this out for weeks."

"Please," Gwen said. "He's about to turn that scratch into the tragic backstory of the century. I'd say at least three business days of whining, two of limping for dramatic effect, and one solid monologue about his trauma." Then, adopting a high-pitched, dramatic voice, she clutched at her chest. "'Oh, woe is me, the beast hath struck me down in my prime! How shall I ever recover?'"

Hermione elbowed her lightly but was clearly fighting back a smile. "Poor Hagrid," she murmured instead, her brow furrowing. "His first lesson, and this happens..."

Gwen's amusement faded slightly. "Yeah," she agreed. "And if there's one thing I know about this school, it's that the administration is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. They'll probably blame him instead of the actual idiot at fault."

Harry and Ron exchanged a look, but neither disagreed.

As they headed back up to the castle, Gwen glanced at the Slytherins huddled together, already whispering among themselves. She had no doubt they were planning to spin this into something far worse than it actually was. 

If she had learned anything from Hogwarts so far, it was that the truth rarely mattered when people like Lucius Malfoy were involved.

. . .