Beginner's Luck

Minerva McGonagall, thirty-one years old, fixed her eyes on the gold-rimmed clock hanging above the door. Time passed painfully slow, the second hand barely shuffling forward. It might just be her eyes crossing, but she swore one time, the hand clicked back a second or two.

After three minutes of staring, she gritted her teeth and put her quill down with a sigh. She rubbed her tired eyes. When she was a teenager, thirty-one had been an impossibly old age, close to the end of her life! So she had assumed by her thirties she would have done something great to establish herself in history–slay a dragon, find innovative uses for something thought to be useless, write a best-selling book. But now that she was actually thirty-one, the only "great" thing she had to look forward to was a walk to a classroom to teach a group of first years how to transfigure a matchstick into a needle.

Merlin. She rubbed her eyes again.

There was a knock at the door. "Minerva, don't you have a class?" Pomona Sprout, the Herbology professor who had snagged her job after the former professor had retired, was already well-accustomed to life as a Hogwarts professor. She liked to constantly remind Minerva of this, further driving the point that Minerva was the most junior of the staff.

"Shoo!" Minerva scowled, waving her hand at Pomona. But Pomona only grinned, perching on the corner of Minerva's immaculate desk.

"Really, you could be a little nicer to your best mate."

"Who said we were best mates?" Minerva said dryly as she returned to staring at the clock again. She had seven minutes to get to her class. Oh joy. "And don't you have a class?"

"Ah, that's the beauty of Herbology. If you drop a little hint about a certain greenhouse that's getting a little unsafe to go into because of some dangerous specimen contained inside, then the lesson's canceled as quick as a wink." Pomona shook her curly-haired head. "I told you there was a point to Herbology, but you wouldn't listen."

"There's not," Minerva snorted. "And that's the most irresponsible thing I have ever heard, Pomona Sprout. And at the beginning of the year, too."

"Ah, how unfortunate," was the cheerful response. "Shouldn't you get going? You only have a minute until classes begin."

With an undignified yelp, Minerva sprang from her seat, snatched her stack of folders, and pushing past Pomona roughly, dashed out the door. She rushed away so quickly, she didn't notice Pomona's amused smile and the clock saying classes instead began in a leisurely four minutes.

Walking down the corridors, Minerva tried to maintain a dignity all young, new professors try to have. Inside, she was panicking–it wouldn't do to be late for her first ever class!–and hoped her long robes hid her speed-walking-almost-running legs. A dash up the stairs and a quick shuffle, a turn at the corner and she was in the Transfiguration classroom.

Luckily, the classroom was empty. No first years coagulated in a corner yet. They were probably milling about the corridors, trying to find their class. She took a deep breath and walked to her desk slowly, dignified once more.

Minerva gently laid her folders on the corner of her desk, taking the FIRST YEAR folder and laying it open for today's lesson plans. Matchstick to needle, she grimaced. A blank parchment she tucked behind the folder, just in case she needed to jot down notes, and she laid out her ink well and quill. There, she thought. Now I look like a proper professor.

She sat and stared down the rows of empty desks and chairs. She tried to envision snot-covered first years–er, her wonderful students–sitting in the seats. She wondered what they would be like. If she would like them or if she would hate them. She hoped she would like them. That would make the year go so much faster.

A head peeked into the classroom, nervous. Probably his group of friends had drawn straws to look inside and confirm it was the correct room. Minerva smiled thinly.

"Come in. This is First Year Transfiguration," she said. She tried to smile in a more friendly way, but the boy still looked terrified and his head disappeared. It took only a minute for him to return with a gaggle of boys. They sat in the far back corner, eyeing her nervously. She ignored their looks, making a show of scribbling gibberish on her parchment.

Soon, all the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw first years filled the classroom, sitting expectantly in their seats, wondering about the new Transfiguration professor. When the bell rang, Minerva rose from her seat. She could hear the creak of her chair easily, it was so quiet.

"Welcome to your first day of Transfiguration," began Minerva, her voice slightly shaky. "I am Professor McGonagall, your Transfiguration professor. I have recently been added to the Hogwarts' staff due to the former Transfiguration professor being… promoted. I will be your professor of Transfiguration for the next seven years. If things go right." She paused, running her eyes over the first years. Were any of them grimacing at the prospect of having her for the next seven years? None. Good. She continued.

"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous class of magic and I expect you to be careful in class. Carelessness will be punished. I have witnessed many nasty incidents when Transfiguration was lightly dealt with." Nothing like a little fear to hammer things in their heads. "I expect all of you to make an effort and complete your homework assignments in a timely manner. I hope we can get along as we have many years before us."

None of the first year looked too thrilled sitting in the class now since Minerva went through her carefully rehearsed speech. She had meant to sound more warm, welcoming, and teacherly, but of course she had botched that bit up. No matter. It's not like she had a way to change what had already happened.

"Your first in-class assignment will be transfiguring these matchsticks–" She summoned a box of matchsticks and caught it deftly. "–to needles."

"Aw, that's it?" The moan came from the back of the class, a Ravenclaw first year with stuck-up brown hair. Minerva decided he looked like a toad. She wanted to retort with some statement about his mother or his toad-like face, but reminded herself she was thinking about insulting an eleven-year-old, a student, no less. She inhaled deeply.

"If you would like to do advanced Transfiguration–" She transfigured into her Animagus form and after allowing the image to sink in, returned to her original form. Many gasped, some mouths dropping open. "–then you must first learn the basics."

"Wow! Can I learn how to do that?" The same first year leaped up from his slouch, eyes wide. She smiled smugly.

"No," she said primly. "But we will learn about Animaguses in fifth year although you will have to achieve N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration before you can attempt being an Animagus yourself. And even then you might be unsuccessful. It's a difficult form of magic." The boy looked extremely disappointed which Minerva took a smug joy at. Then she was aghast at taking joy at an eleven-year-old's disappointment. She decided she was being childish and moved on to passing out matchsticks.

She spent the next twenty minutes demonstrating the simple transfiguration, giving advice and the proper wand movements. Then she turned the first years loose to attempt it themselves. She hoped they wouldn't fail too badly.

After telling off a few Hufflepuffs who were shoving matchsticks into each other's ears ("We are first years at Hogwarts, Mister Smith, not five-year-olds sitting on our mother's laps."), Minerva glanced over at the rude Ravenclaw who had spoken out. He was struggling; not a natural then. Even though he was her "most hated student", Minerva decided to allow him a few more attempts before going in and helping him out. Maybe by a few more tries, he would've fixed his wrist.

"Very good, Miss Garner," she said to a strawberry blonde's needle-matchstick. The body was a needle, but the tip was the red bulge of a matchstick. "But concentrate more, instead of verbally attacking Mister Thomas." The girl blushed and ducked her head, nodding.

"And Mister Thomas, that is an impressive attempt–"

"Ouch!"

Minerva turned her head to where the blood-curdling shriek had come from. Of course, it was from that Ravenclaw boy's direction. Abandoning Mister Thomas' attempts for a moment, Minerva glided to the other side of the room to the two boys who were clearly the perpetrators of the disruption. Before she could ask what had happened, the Most Hated Boy spoke up.

"Professor, he," The Ravenclaw boy pointed vehemently, "stabbed me with his needle! I was trying to transfigure my matchstick and he stabbed me!"

Minerva's eyes fixed on the boy sitting next to the Most Hated Boy with a very innocent expression–so innocent, it was suspicious.

"Look at this mark, Professor!" the Most Hated Boy continued, gesturing wildly to his arm. Minerva leaned down to look. The skin was a little pressed in where the needle had pricked the boy, but there was no blood, no bruises, no serious injuries. Minerva sighed.

"No blood," Minerva said, "so it's not a serious injury. But Mister Bartleby, we do not prod others with our newly transfigured needles. If such an incident occurs again, I assure you detention." The first year boy gulped. "Five points from Ravenclaw. And apologies exchanged, please."

The two boys eyed each other, the Most Hated Boy with a glare, but in the end, Andrew Bartleby mumbled, "Sorry for poking you, Simon."

The Most Hated Boy sniffed, still holding his arm. "It's okay. It's just a puncture that could get infected and kill me overnight."

"And Mister…" Who was this kid? Minerva squinted, trying to remember the class list. Ah. "Mister Whence, there is no need for drama in the classroom. Please resume working."

The rest of the class turned away from the drama, leaving with the knowledge that the new professor wasn't one for loose discipline. That was the only good point about the exchange, Minerva thought to herself. She praised the Bartleby boy for his successful transfiguration and continued on making rounds around the classroom.

Five minutes left in the class and most everyone had made progress. About a quarter of the class was successful in making a complete transfiguration of a matchstick into a needle, and the majority of the rest could at least get to the halfway point, the needle-matchstick creation similar to Sally Garner's. Only a small percentage were completely mediocre–couldn't even make the matchstick silver. Oh well. It was only the first day.

The bell rang and all were dismissed. She nodded at all of them leaving and began collecting the matchsticks and needles and needle-matchsticks that were strewn around the classroom. Minerva heaved a deep breath–was teaching always this difficult? She didn't know if she was up for this…

"Professor?"

Minerva turned. It was that Simon Whence boy, the Most Hated Boy she decided was alright after he managed to keep himself in line and actually turn his matchstick into a needle. He had something in his hands which he now offered to her. She took it, curious.

"Er, my mum really wanted me to give all the professors her famous biscuits," he mumbled shyly, scratching his head. Minerva looked at the prettily decorated box. "She made me do that for all my teachers before and she didn't see why I should stop because she's a Muggle and… yeah…"

A lilac ribbon tied at the center kept the green box closed tightly. Minerva smiled down at the boy. "Thank you, Mister Whence. This is very kind of you."

"Have a good day, Professor," the boy mumbled before he scampered away. Minerva smiled to herself, surprised. This certainly wasn't orthodox…

She pulled the ribbon and opened the box. Inside was a pretty arrangement of butter-yellow biscuits, the marvelous scent rising to her nose. She tried one and decided it was delicious.

Minerva gathered her materials and walked to her office with a biscuit in hand. She chewed thoughtfully. Pomona was waiting for her at the office. "How'd it go?" she asked.

Minerva looked down at the biscuit and took another bite. "Not bad for the first day… Not bad at all…"