Lesson Given, Lesson Learned

The Welcoming Feast had delivered on the expectations I had from my metaknowledge, and after stuffing ourselves, meeting the ghosts, and being generally warned from the Forbidden Forest by Headmaster Armando Dippet, we first years followed a male Prefect charged with leading the way.

"You're a big one, aren't you? How did it come to be?" I turned my head to my left, where a dark-haired girl, with her badge shining proudly on her robes, was eyeing me with open curiosity.

"Potion accident when I was a child," I offered my practised lie with a thin smile, "I was too curious for my own good I suppose."

And that was that.

We were led from the Great Hall through a confusing set of stairs and corridors, finally reaching the dungeons while the prefects explained what their role was: "I am Joseph Deverill, she's Genine Carrow, we're the fifth year prefects. So if you need anything in these first weeks, don't hesitate to ask. Now, try to remember the way, and don't tell it to anyone from the other Houses, it's a secret."

The trick to not getting lost is just keeping going down. I thought to myself as I looked over the ambience. Gone were the great windows and almost none airy landings. In fact, the corridors were noticeably smaller, and dare I say it? Even gloomier.

After two utterly unremarkable suits of armour and a nook for a lit torch, the prefects had us stop in front of an apparently random stretch of wall, where he spoke: "Palmam qui meruit ferat".

The blank wall seemed to unfold with a sound of grinding stone, not unlike what I remembered from Diagon Alley's entrance. The resulting archway let us access a large room made of granite, characterised with leather couches around low coffee tables, armchairs and lit fireplaces situated in locations in order to stave off the cold and damp. It was, without a doubt, the most dungeon-like room I had ever seen, with greenish lamps and chairs. This dungeon extended partway under the lake, which gave the light in the room a green tinge.

The common room had lots of low backed black and dark green button-tufted, leather sofas and dark wood cupboards. One of the wooden tables had a Wizard's Chess set on it, where a couple of older students was playing while drinking what I was certain wasn't water. Where the walls weren'0t bare, the room was decorated with tapestries featuring the adventures of famous Medieval Slytherins.

It has quite a grand atmosphere, but also quite a cold one. I thought as my eyes landed on one side of the room was placed the largest fireplace, which roared merrily and around which the older students seemed to hold council, or some tripe along those lines.

There was a piece of abhorrently classical and slow music playing from a gramophone and the quiet chattering of students covered the room in a white noise not dissimilar from the pattering of a shy rain.

While I ignored the repetitive explanation about House Points and Quidditch, prefect Joseph led us towards one archway, that after a few meters let us in a circular room that held seven minor archways, whose contents got lost in the darkness: "Each corridor contains a number of rooms." With a twitch of his wand, a brilliant '1' appeared on our left. "Each year the corridors slide clockwork wise, so now you'll always know where your room is. I suggest you don't try to bother the older years: stay in your corridor. And don't even attempt to enter the gals' dormitory, the wards won't let you."

Joseph Deverill simply gestured towards our corridor: "The House Elves will bring your belongings once you choose a room, so tuck in, your first week will be demanding, I suggest taking as much shut-eye as you can."

I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding when it was revealed that each was going to have his own room, that we would keep for the seven years and that would be returned to its original state once we completed our stay at Hogwarts. I'm never letting anything important in my room. I decided as I walked towards the first room, the other firsties, still somewhat wary of my size, were all too glad to follow my lead.

My room was more akin to a cubicle than an actual room, with just enough space for a bed, the trunk that appeared at its feet, and a bathroom that was actually somewhat lavish. And not for the first time, I was overjoyed that I was born after the invention of toilets. The idea of shitting in a hole on a plank of wood did not amuse me in the slightest. Then again, maybe wizards had a solution before plumbing became a thing.

I eyed my bed with a critical eye: "I'll need to learn Engorgio properly sooner or later."

Relishing the warmth from my wand as I waved it in a slow clockwise circle followed by a jab, envisioning the result I was expecting while I willed reality to bend, I spoke: "Engorgio!"

Almost as if I was using Word to process an image, it looked like I had taken an angle of the bed and pulled following the diagonal, causing the width and the length of the bed to grow in a proportionate manner.

With a satisfied smile, I undressed and went to sleep, briefly considering trying a Colloportus in order to secure my room before abandoning the idea. One thing was using a charm that I managed to study upon the books that Hagrid's father kept since his time at the school, a whole different kettle of fish was attempting something that I was aware of only thanks to my metaknowledge.

So I simply pinned the door in position through my trunk, heaving it easily with a strength that I still wasn't used to, and then went to sleep.

My first days at Hogwarts went by in a rush of lessons and impromptu explorations. It was all too easy to get lost when trying to navigate the castle, which in my opinion had a tendency to spontaneously rearrange itself. The books only spoke about the Stairs Moving, there was no talk about magic fuckery going on everywhere.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was for now mostly theory, listing a number of minor magical creatures that were somewhat nasty unless you knew how to deal with them, but we were weeks away from learning actual magic.

Herbology had very little to do with magic in my opinion, and a lot to do with remaining calm, caring for nothing but the greenery around you. While I didn't particularly enjoy having to scrub the dirt from beneath my fingernails, I bulldozed through my tasks with methodical stubbornness, and dutifully memorized the information about the plants, hoping that at least they would turn out useful in Potions.

History, sadly, had one very dead Professor Binns as its teacher. So I spent those hours either doing homework or preparing diagrams in order to study History on my own.

On Tuesdays, just before midnight, we had astronomy with Professor Summit, a woman who always had a pair of binoculars hanging from her neck. Her class took place at the top of Hogwarts' tallest tower, where we poked our telescopes between the crenelations to chart the heavens with sleepy eyes. It was interesting, more or less, mostly because the stars and the other celestial bodies influenced the development of some potions I had read in the Library, but otherwise useless. Sure, I was aware that a Basilisk hatched from a chicken egg under a toad after a night of the full moon, at least listening to my metaknowledge, but for some reason, I doubted that we were going to be taught the importance of starts during the creation of rituals to create lethal beasts that we could drop on our enemies.

But, if Herbology, Astronomy, Defence and History were somewhat exactly how I had thought they would be, Charms, Transfiguration and Potions actually caught my interest.

Besides the frustration born out of my occasionally getting lost, which I did in fact share with all the others first years, to the amusement of the older students, it appeared clear that using magic was not a priority for our professors, which were busy making inane questions that challenged the absence of logic of Wizardkind in a way that did not make sense.

"To cast magic, you must first understand what it is you are doing," explained Professor Farsee in Charms. She was a small, elderly witch, not more than five feet tall, and of a serious disposition: "You can pronounce an incantation beautifully, move your wand with exquisite precision, and yet nothing will happen if your head contains no more understanding of magic than does a Muggle's!"

Sarah Wingtip, a first-year Ravenclaw with whom Slytherin shared Charms, raised her hand from her place next to me: "But sir, what about accidental magic?"

"An excellent question!" Professor Farsee exclaimed. Her voice ascended in pitch when she got excited, temporarily abandoning her gravelly tone in a way that managed to convey her passion for the subject: "In truth, all wizards can cast some rudimentary magic without training. Think of it like a conversation with someone who doesn't speak English. You might be able to get by, a little, with pointing at things. If you have a mind for languages, you may even pick a few words up. But to have a proper conversation, you need to learn their language. So it is with magic."

From the back of the class, where I could easily oversee everything going on, I raised my hand and asked once I was called by the elderly witch: "The 'language' of magic works through what then? Symbols? Is that the reason behind the wand motions?"

I earned 2 points for my House with my insightful question, which received an affirmative answer: "But then if the symbols make sense only to me, would it be possible to use different wand-motions in order to perform the same Charm?"

And just like that, I lost 5 points because my questions disturbed the normal advancing of the class.

See, the part that nobody seemed to understand while reading Harry Potter, was that the coursework was prepared for eleven years old children, who, no matter how talented, had a mind that admittedly could easily grasp new things, was also limited by both their difficulty to grasp an abstract concept, and the general limitations that they subconsciously applied to magic. Either because they grew up knowing about magic, and thusly were aware of the most common limits, or because they were muggle-raised, and thusly still not taking magic as the first path towards the completion of a task.

I, on the other hand, was an ex Art student that had lived in the far future, with access to fiction books that described my current circumstances. So I was pretty much convinced that everything was possible.

I had a growing number of theories about the workings of magic, which were obliquely confirmed by the words of Professor Farsee: "Remember, when we talk about fire we do not just mean literal fire. It's much more than that. Fire is a symbol, your understanding of said symbol brings out several ways through which you can imagine its application, while the wand motions, when matched with appropriate intent, will create an actual charm."

Still, it was clear to me that eleven years old children weren't meant to actually understand the woolly explanation about the theory of charms, not fully. And despite that, they actually managed, when the time came, to make their quills tentatively quiver upwards in the air.

The levitation charm was obviously one that I had read extensively about: it was iconic, and if Ron Weasley managed to use it to defeat a Troll of all things, I sure as hell could do much more than that.

In the last lesson of our first week, we actually got to levitate quills, and it went without saying that I performed admirably. What was the difference between lifting a quill and a whole desk? Surely weight did not matter if Weasley managed to lift a troll's club. And if there was some kind of limit, I was vastly within it, given my comparative size to the other children.

With an unenthusiastic rush of warmth that ran across my arm when I moved my wand, I levitated the desk, along with everything else that I had upon it.

Professor Farsee saw fit to give me five points for the charm and detract two for disturbing his class.

When we finally had Transfiguration, I felt almost jittery. My faith was immediately rewarded, because Dumbledore was not only the first teacher that actually had us use our wands, but also an all-around kickass wizard, that somehow had managed to remember that Magic was Magic, and that to face it with anything but enthusiasm was bloody foolish.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and beautiful magic you will ever encounter." Dumbledore started out jabbing his wand at his desk, which churned on itself for a split second before becoming a proud lion, which eyed us students with a bored gaze before looking at the Deputy Headmaster with a flat gaze that seemed to be unimpressed.

With another twitch too fast for my eyes to follow, the lion surged forward, scattering midflight into a flock of swallows that churned just beyond the reach of my hand while everyone let out a flabbergasted sound at the impressive demonstration, after a few seconds, the birds returned towards Dumbledore, turning into black and blue butterflies for an instant before amassing themselves one upon the other and merging again in their original form. Only that now the desk was anything but ordinary: in relief around the base of the wood, a rampant lion spewed a river of swallows from its roaring mouth, which turned midflight into the butterflies we had just watched change shape.

Now, that is magic. I didn't even pretend to contain the smile on my face, and I stared unerringly at Dumbledore, captivated just like any other 11 years old child.

"While Charms is dedicated to the change, enhancement, or even creation or negation of properties of both animate and animate things around us, Transfiguration is a branch of magic that changes the very shape of what or whom it is used upon." Dumbledore smiled genially at us while his twinkling blue eyes studied our reactions.

"But just as this branch of magic is complex and beautiful, it is also dangerous. It does not wear off, and the reversal of a Transfiguration is an advanced skill that very few can hope to master. As such, I expect that each of you will apply himself fully in this class, and that you will not allow your attention to waver before attempting a transfiguration, no matter how inane it may appear in you eyes." then he smiled, cutting off his serious tone with his genial attitude: "But then again, I already knew that each of you was going to try his hardest here, hm?"

With another twirl of his wand, on the blackboard appeared a triangle, with each side as long as the others, followed by one inscribed in a dashed semi-circle, and another that had two sides that stretched from one side of the blackboard to another: "Now, we can all agree that these are all triangles, yes?"

At the general assent of the class, he went ahead: "But I bet that each of you can imagine several different forms that nevertheless fall behind the rather large umbrella of 'triangle'. So, now this I ask of you, which triangle is better?"

And at that moment I discovered that Dumbledore was an asshole because despite the obvious question of 'what do you mean for better triangle' gently forwarded by a Gryffindor, the Professor let the class despair for ten whole minutes before erasing completely the blackboard: "Very well, we now agree that there is not a triangle better than others without a context that would give us a parameter on the basis of which we could make our choice. Now, I want each of you to trace a circle with your quill and ink on a spare piece of parchement."

"Notice how all these circles have imperfections, and yet we can still recognise them as circles?" Professor Dumbledore showcased his own slightly wobbly version of a circle realized on the blackboard: "This is because a perfect circle, or a perfect triangle, don't actually exist. Or better yet, they don't exist in our world, and the circles or triangles we draw are more or less correct imitations of their Ideal-Form. We perceive that these imperfect circles share features with the perfect circle, even though none of us has ever seen it. We know that as long as a figure has only three sides and three vertexes is a triangle, but there are countless form that are defined by such a definition. It is these Ideal Forms which the magic of Transfiguration calls upon."

This sounds like the beginning of Greek Philosophy. I grimaced briefly as I distractedly jotted down notes about Dumbledore's speech. In that class, we learnt of the two substances, physical and aetherial, and we remarked that we could only change the shape.

"Doesn't this mean that to reverse a transfiguration a wizard needs to perceive the ideal form of what the object was before?" I asked in a lull of the lesson.

Dumbledore's eyes found me with another of his genial smiles: "Not at all! If that was the case, you'd be simply transfiguring the object into something that resembled its previous shape. But that was a good attempt."

After more or less an hour of theoretical discussion that made much more sense than the Transfiguration issued book, Dumbledore had us put the quills down, apparently only having scratched the surface of Transfiguration theory, but he claimed that we were nonetheless ready to try our first spell.

Very much like McGonagall would ask in the canonical Harry Potter books, our task was to transfigure a matchstick into a steel needle, something that I knew was more complex than what it looked like, or at least in theory: changing an object's substance was much harder than simply altering its shape.

For a moment I just watched over my peers, which were busy with different iterations of the same spell, from shouting the incantation and overexaggerating their movements, to re-read the first half of the book before attempting, to try and bully the matchstick into compliance with half-hearted threats, and so on.

Everyone had their own approach to spellcasting.

In the end, I simply kept in mind the explanation we had been issued and an instant before attempting, I frowned: "How different can it be?"

Slowly dragging my wand over her matchstick, I spoke: "Lignoverto!"

The matchstick shimmered and flowed, going pointy at the end and turning into a dull, metallic grey, making me frown when I spotted the grain of the wood in the metallic construct. Why didn't it work? The incantation is no Latin, because if it was so, I should have had to use accusative coupled with the verbal command: Lignum Verto, so why...?

"A commendable attempt, Mr. Hagrid," Dumbledore said, his eyes fixed on my work from all the way across the room, "Five points to Slytherin. Be sure to picture the needle correctly before attempting the spell. You'll learn that once-living materials such as wood don't like to be turned into dead metal. It will resist the change, so you must overcome it with a strong will and a clear image."

Like hell the will of a dead piece of wood is going to stop me. I frowned, and recast, making sure to keep the eye of the needle in mind once I reached the end of the metallic matchstick. The result was flawless

I left the Transfiguration lesson with more questions than answers, mostly about the exact mechanics of casting magic than the actual subject Dumbledore taught, but there was little I could do about my curiosity until I developed a somewhat reliable rhythm in Hogwarts.

Instead of a cold, grimy, stone laboratory with narrow, dirt windows and shelves lined with jars of strange Potions ingredients, for my first potion lesson I entered a long dungeon room at the end of which four cauldrons bubbled merrily, the afternoon sun entered muted from the narrow windows on one side of the room, while a large cabinet containing ingredients rested on the opposite side.

Horace Slughorn was, very much as he had been depicted as, a walrus in wizard' robes. Great moustache over a beaming mouth, eyebrow that shot up in surprise when he spotted my size, that thankfully he didn't mention, end a sharp glint in his eye that betrayed his generally laid back attitude.

"What," he began once everybody was placed behind a different desk, his voice full of expectation, "is a Potion?"

He smiled in faux apology when he didn't call upon anyone to answer: "Potions can do almost anything, truly, heal, rejuvenate, change the form of the drinker, bottle luck, the only limit is the ability of the brewer. And the ingredients at his disposal of course."

"You see, each potion is like a story, bringing together in a final result the meaning of each of its component." he clapped his hands excitedly, "If you've taken a peek in your book before this lesson, you'll know that it is basically a very thorough recipe book that keeps track even of the number of stirs, clockwise or counterclockwise, needed in order to bring out a determined result from within each ingredient."

When nobody spoke, an astute smile displayed itself upon Slughorn's face: "A demonstration is in order, I believe."

"Now," he started to talk as he rummaged behind his desk, "potion-making require precision in almost every aspect, for even the smallest variation can have disastrous effects on the brew. It is also true, however, that even the smallest variation, can bring out unexpected results that can be described as beneficial."

In a few moments, he had placed a pewter cauldron on his desk, and a smattering of ingredients, likely leftovers from his other lessons, were showcased on a white cloth over an opportunely enlarged portion of his desk.

"Now, let's see... let's see..." his hand shot amidst the ingredients with unerring precision, dragging out... an acorn?

"Yes, why not..." the walrus-like potion-maker murmured to himself, "we will try to make this acorn sprout into a small version of an oak, since I don't want to enlarge the room that much."

He had appeared like he was unsure of what he should try to create, but I wasn't sure about it. Slughorn gaze travelled across the classroom in order to check upon the undivided attention he was receiving, and then he smiled again: "I will need your help to decide on what ingredients will be needed," he stated, "Miss. Horine, which of these ingredients would you associate with life and renewal?"

"The Pugroot root is often present in healing potions..." said the first-year Slytherin and he pointed to one of the plants, though she seemed puzzled by the question.

I looked at the suggestion. The root was thick and heavy, dense and with thin filaments of red running through it.

"The pugroot gives birth to a plant is sturdy and with leathery leaves." Slughorn clarified for the sake of others that had no idea of what the student had been talking about, but he also shook his head: "But no, remember? I didn't ask to point me to an ingredient based upon what they're used for, at least not just that. It is about the feeling it gives, what it means. Here, better that I show you."

"This, the pugroot plant. It is all wrong. Life is about birth, growth, death and renewal. It is about green saplings and shoots, seeds and fruits. It is about striving and hoping and driving for more and better. This plant is none of those things. It is hardy and sturdy, it is about resisting death, not rejoicing in life." Slughorn spoke passionately, " There will be time to rely on preexistent recipes, for now, I want you all to focus on what I've told you: a potion is a story."

He looked at the other plants arrayed upon the white cloth until he saw something more suitable: "This one, though, is much better."

The bark was a youthful green and the leaves were soft and new despite the ever colder nights of the incoming winter.

"But that is from a Slither-Willow, it's poisonous!" stuttered out a Ravenclaw, which was busy crosschecking the choices of Slughorn with his copy of One thousand Magical Herbes and Fungi.

"When talking about plants and animals, death is a part of life," Slughorn smiled faintly as he rubbed one of the leaves between his fingers, "Without it, life is little more than existence, like a ghost who wanders the same halls for eternity."

Without hesitating, the Professor shaved off a small amount of the bark into the pot, "But you are right, poison alone will not work. We must add something to protect against it, do you have a suggestion?"

And so it continued. Sometimes a student would offer a suggestion and Slughorn would nod approvingly as he looked at the choice. More often than not, however, the Professor would frown and shake his head before explaining why he did not believe it was suitable.

Sometimes Slughorn told us about the ingredient: whether about the history of the plant, or the conditions in which it naturally grew, or if it flowered or spread. If the snake whose crushed fang he wanted to add was poisonous to animals or only to humans.

It was mind-blogging. I had no idea whatsoever about what was going on, and I often found myself inching forward, looming over the heads of my peers in order to peer into the cauldron Slughorn had set up.

"There," he said when the surface of the potion smoothed to a perfect leafy green. "It's done," Slughorn fished out the acorn he had secured at the beginning of the lesson and held it with only two fingers over the potion he had prepared: "Now we complete the promise we set up with the crushed quills and bat' eyes, with this seed, we give a target to the shaving of Slither-Willow."

Without another word, he dropped the seed... and nothing happened.

After five seconds, Slughorn pulled the pot off from the fire, and the magic began: the green liquid shimmered with inner light, sending a pleasantly fresh spurt of wind across the dungeon, and in seconds, the liquid inside the pot seemed to thicken and assumed a dark green colouration, like moss, while from the centre of the potion spurted a sapling, which grew quickly into a great oak tree thirty centimetres tall. Its leaves were healthy summer green. Its miniature branches rustled and swayed as if in presence of a gentle breeze, which nevertheless filled the air with a scent that had no place in the classroom. It brought to my mind long summer afternoons, the dry light scent of a long summer day.

This, I thought, my mind discarding the bullshit of Dumbledore's Transfiguration, this is Magic.

Besides a few brief visits, I hadn't managed to actually enjoy the Library, but after the first week of lessons, and after I half-assed most of my assignments, I finally found the time to freely explore it.

Besides a first area free of shelves, where stood the desk of the Master Librarian of Doom, who looked at me as if it the very thought that I was going to peruse the Library was outrageous, the Library occupied an undetermined large hall that seemed to extend as far as the eye could see, row upon row of books, divided in sections carefully labelled, with each shelf separated from the next one by one or more tables where the students could sit.

I had a vast variety of stuff that I would have liked to research, but it was somewhat of a given that I wasn't going to ever know everything. If Voldemort had needed to get Hagrid drunk in the Philosopher Stone in order to find out how to bypass a Cerberus of all things, it appeared clearly that the world was simply too vast, and with too many branches of magic for me to ever learn. Specialization wasn't exactly something that I liked to think about, but there was nothing for it. My solution? Learning enough of the basics and then fuck off to figure out my own way of doing magic.

Besides, I thought by myself as I strolled across the library, picking up a tome here and there, a world-wide empire isn't going to build itself. I stopped briefly when my eyes landed on the Restricted Section, considering briefly a possible break-in before discarding the option, there would be time for that eventually.

"I'm starting to sound like a megalomaniac..." I muttered to myself once I recognized that referring to my vague plan about the future as 'the creation of a world-wide empire' didn't sound particularly sane. Nevertheless, I needed to acquire skills before setting out on my own.

Will I actually need 7 years of lessons here? I wondered as I picked up a thick tome about Animation. "Right after the war it's likely going to be the best time to set myself up economically." and the rhythm that the curriculum followed was extremely slow compared to what I could learn while I applied myself.

In the summer I can try out Apparition, it didn't sound like a difficult skill to learn. And that should take care of mobility. I only need a way to build a safe shelter, which implies some sort of ward, to eat and drink, and a way to keep myself and my clothes clean. After another couple of steps, I snorted: "Like hell I'm going to shit behind a bush, so I should learn something about that too."

When I started to have difficulty balancing the pile of books, I began looking for a place to seat. Surely enough, I spotted a large table, where a lonely third-year Gryffindor was sitting alone, the casual glare she shot at me in order to keep me from sitting likely the reason for her solitude. Jackpot.

With a sharp chin and wide eyes, a 13 years old Minerva McGonagall almost bared her teeth in a silent growl when I approached despite her deterring tactics. "Excuse me?" she snapped with a whisper accompanied by a frown when I simply sat down.

"Excused." I replied glibly as I started to peruse the contents of my selection of books, "Is it true that you're the next Merlin in Transfiguration?"

My question cut short her half-whispered rant, bringing a dusting of pink on her cheeks before she resumed what would eventually evolve in her distinctive stern expression: "I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with your silly Slytherin stupidity!"

Great alliteration. "What stupidity? You're great at Transfiguration, I'm curious about Transfiguration, sitting here seems outright wise in my opinion."

She scoffed, before narrowing her eyes and looking me over, likely seeing me for the first time instead of using her eyes as an approximation of daggers: "You're that unnaturally large first year." she accused me.

"And you're likely to be the most observant gal around, congratulations." I rolled my eyes while I fingered my wand, focusing on the intended result of my spell. Without further ado, I pointed at my quill and intoned lightly: "Plumaverto."

The string-like filaments of both sides of the central, rigid part of the quill seemed to flow like water one over another, twirling as they assumed a metallic sheen and the object shortened, assuming the more reasonable form of a fountain pen.

I lifted my eyes from my spare parchment in time to see the Scottish witch's surprised expression, "That's..." McGonagall's voice wavered between confusion about the whole situation, disbelief that a first-year could complete such a transfiguration just after a week of lessons, envy because of my inventive, and curiosity now that I had proved myself different from your ordinary Hogwarts student.

With practised ease and enjoying the interested gaze of the witch sitting on the other side of the table, I unscrewed the top of the pen, revealing the hollow side that I had envisioned, and slowly, I poured ink inside, before screwing tightly the top and writing a few squiggly lines in order to get the black liquid running before setting out to draw up a diagram of the fountain pen, that clearly had yet to appear in the Wizarding World, scribbling 'Plumaverto' on one side. Finally, with what I hoped would be received as an amicable smile, I handed over the parchment, which was received with raised eyebrows.

"My name is Rubeus Hagrid." I introduced myself raising my hand in order to shake hers.

"Minerva McGonagall, it's a pleasure." she instinctively replyed while she shook my hand. Even then, her eyes never left the parchment, avidly devouring my design: "It's inventive, but you could accomplish a similar result with a self-inking quill."

I stopped her tentative to demean my work with a simple observation: "Refilling Charm. If you practice enough, I imagine you could turn the side of the pen into glass, maybe make it so that it is unstainable so that when the ink starts getting low, you can fill it with a wave of your wand."

"That's sixth-year material..." she frowned, but she stopped trying to dismiss my creation.

I shrugged, ignoring the weak objection. It has taken me ten hours of practice to turn a quill into a ball fountain pen, I'm fucking proud of it. "Because like the Gemino Curse it is a form of conjuration?" I tentatively proposed, neatly introducing one of the questions that had been rolling in my head for the past week.

"So," I stated now that I managed to get her attention, "I understand the whole explanation about leveraging symbolism in order to accomplish either a charm or a transfiguration." Even if Potter was able to learn Muffliato, Levicorpus, Sectumsempra and even the Patronus without the need to think about anything in particular. I amended the statement in my head, aware that a deep understanding of Magical Theory was actually pretty useless when one actually needed to cast magic.

"Still, I don't actually understand Gamp. The fifth exception in particular." I concluded while tapping on a page.

"It should be noted that while food cannot be outright created from nothing, it can be multiplied if one already has some food to multiply, it can be enlarged or the food can be summoned if one knows the approximate location and is fairly sure the food will still be there." Minerva read from the page I had shoved under her nose, still somewhat frazzled about my whole performance, "In addition, while "good food" cannot be conjured, consumable things such as sauces, wine, and potable water can be, as they are not particularly nutritious substances."

"But creatures can be conjured, can't they? Such as snakes and birds, because it is admittedly easy enough to picture the Ideal Form of a living animal." I countered, and they're clearly more complex than wine.

"Leaving alone the fact that conjuring is extremely difficult," Minerva's eyes briefly found mine, still disbelieving about the surreality of the whole situation: "and that there is a reason why Duplicating and Refilling Charms are left for N.E.W.T. courses, you'd likely be best served by following the curriculum, before jumping so unbelievably far ahead."

I grimaced at her objection, I didn't want to learn how to make a teacup dance, nevermind turning a beetle into a button or a guinea pig into a fowl, it sounded like a wasteful expenditure of both time and effort: "If I get on par with the theory, shall we be studying together?" I offered the only compromise that I was willing to give.

"You'd think yourself capable of

"It doesn't sound so complex, I've been taught how to turn a matchstick into a needle two days ago, and look what I've managed to do on the spur of the moment."

"The spur of the moment?"

"I may have spent an inordinate amount of time on the design." I conceded her point before returning to my offer: "If I get reasonably on par with fourth-year theory of Transfiguration, will you agree to study together? I have some projects that would welcome your talented approach instead of my silly Slytherin showmanship, and I'm more than likely to prove myself an extraordinary wizard, and I'd like to eventually become friends."

She snorted at the utter lack of modesty I displayed, making me smile sardonically: "Friends?" she arched an unimpressed eyebrow.

I kind of understood her disbelief, I was eleven, she was 13 years old, at that age it sounded like an abyss, but McGonagall was going to be a monster in Transfiguration, and admittedly, the idea of remaining on my lonesome for the whole duration of my stay at Hogwarts sounded kind of... maddeningly.

Sure, Dumbledore looked like a swell guy, but I truly didn't want to risk him painting me with Tom's brush, and that was without thinking about the inherent risk of slipping up near the genius wizard. That ruled him out as a friend until I managed to get on a somewhat equal footing.

Slughorn had an eye for talent, and he was likely to approach me if I managed to realize some of the wild projects I had for potions of various kind. But he was also the professor that saw nothing wrong with talking about Horcruxes with Tom Riddle, so while I was undoubtedly going to use him as much as he was going to use me, I wasn't eager for that.

The only remaining person that could provide something akin to an intelligent exchange, unless I wanted to waste my time by scouring the whole population of Hogwarts, was Tom Riddle. Yeah, that wasn't an option, since I still needed to kill the megalomaniac fucker.

"You'd think yourself capable of catching up..." Minerva stopped her objection when she spotted me twirling the fountain pen I created, "Very well, I agree."

A few hours later, I ended up checking out several books on transfiguration suggested by Minerva, who still made clear that she wasn't going to give me the time of the day unless I proved myself to be actually competent.

This wasn't the world of petty rivalry depicted in the Harry Potter books, the differences were glaringly obvious. Not only for the long-lasting effects caused by both Grindelwald and Voldemort, but very much because of the general mentality of the people. In 1940, respect for your elders and for Institutions was very much a thing.

I was about to reach the common room, where I had every intention of buckling down on Transfiguration for the rest of the day, when a muttered voice behind me gave away the presence of someone else.

A spell sizzled uselessly against my back, making me turn with a frown clearly etched on my features. Behind me, there was a pair of older Slytherin students, likely around 14 years of age, who shared an expression of amusement that quickly turned into one of disbelief when they understood that their first move had utterly failed.

Said expression turned into one of confusion when instead of recoiling in fear, I took a step forward and brandished my own wand: "Expelliarmus!"

I flicked my wrist as I had religiously practised, the image of the Disarming Charm stark clear in my head, followed by another, more subtle twitch of the wand directed at the second student. Levicorpus.

"Protego!" the instinctive answer of the first kid came in time to stop the Disarming Charm, but it did not spare his companion, which was suddenly uplifted by his ankle, causing him to let his wand fall as he instinctively tried to bring his hands to protect his face from the floor, which for an istant looked like it was going to smash him on the face.

The first student turned his flabbergasted expression towards his friend just in time to be nailed by another silent Levicorpus, that I followed up with another: "Expelliarmus!" confident of the results of my charm.

A few seconds later, I was holding the wands of two very pissed purebloods that had no idea how to free themselves, forced as they were to dangle from their calves, flashing all the corridor with their underwear.

I sighed, considering the situation. What to do, what to do? I suppose I should be grateful that the bullying of the 'clearly different' first year waited for a whole week.

"That was very well done." a calm voice that did not belong to a 13 years old kid made me turn where an amused Tom Riddle was looking over the rsults of the impromptu duel.

Oh fucking hell! I groaned.

AN

I've always imagined that each House has its own dormitory arrangements. So, while it makes sense for Lions and Puffs to share a dormitory, I really cannot see Nobles going from living in a family manor to share a dormitory. While I've always imagined that Ravenclaw would push for single rooms in order to push for self-study.

Charms and Transfiguration Lore:

If you've enjoyed the set up of this Lore (that I will explore and modify to my own preference soon enough), I suggest you read Victoria Potter by Taure.

Potions Lore:

Really, there is no information about canon potions that makes sense. But Potions is an OP skill, of that there is no doubt. Felix Felicis anyone? Draught of Living Death? Polijuice? Skelegrow? Potions can do basically whatever, as long as their maker is competent enough. So I'm actually going to enjoy the challenge of building a Potion-Lore. Snape modified heavily each potion, did he not? The results turned out better, the method more efficient. So I'm building Potionering as a cross between a small ritual and some mysterious shit that requires some innate spark in order to be exploited to the maximum. I strongly suggest everyone that enjoyed that part read The Shadow of Angmar, by Steelbadger.

Sorry about the usually detached recalling of the first lessons, but I needed to somewhat mention those. Still, as you've seen, there will be character interaction in this fic: I promise, but I really cannot force myself to write about an adult chatting with eleven years old as an equal, it just makes no sense whatsoever.

And before you ask, about wandless shit: if both Dumbledore and Voldemort used wands for everything major, I'm not going to turn the MC into a wandless prodigy. Yes, minor things, he'll be able to complete without his holly and phoenix feather wand. But the rest... well, you'll have to read and find out, won't you?

So... thoughts? Suggestions? Hopes?