Not Just a Cat

First-Year Transfiguration Class, September 1961

POV: Minerva McGonagall

The students trickled into the classroom—some cautiously, some gawking—searching for their new professor.

But there was no professor to be seen.

Just a tabby cat.

She sat perfectly still atop the desk at the front of the room, paws tucked beneath her, green eyes sharp and unblinking. A quill hovered in the air nearby, scratching notes onto a roll of parchment. The chalk danced lazily across the blackboard:

Transfiguration, First Lesson: Matchstick to Needle

It took a full minute before anyone began to whisper.

"Where is she?"

"Do you think we're early?"

"Is this a test?"

Ted Tonks, all nervous energy and wide eyes, leaned toward the cat. "Maybe she's late."

From his seat two rows back, Anatolius Weasley didn't speak. He simply watched the cat.

Not with suspicion, but with… curiosity. As if he'd already worked it out. Or was trying to.

Very good, Minerva thought, her tail flicking once.

Then, without fanfare, she sprang from the desk and landed neatly beside it. With a shimmer of movement and a pop of displaced air, the cat vanished—replaced by a tall, stern witch in emerald robes, spectacles sharp as her gaze.

Half the class gasped.

The other half stared in open-mouthed silence.

She adjusted her sleeves with cool precision. "Transfiguration," she said, voice clear and commanding, "is a branch of magic that concerns itself with change—real, physical, often permanent. It is not for the lazy, nor the inattentive."

She let the pause stretch.

She gestured, and chalk scratched itself across the blackboard:

Transfiguration – Fundamentals of Physical Change

Matchstick Needle

Principle: Material & Purpose Aligned by Magical Will

"Transfiguration is among the most complex branches of magic," she said. "It requires precision, intention, and deep magical control. It does not tolerate sloppiness."

Wands were gripped a little tighter.

"Today's transformation may seem simple," she continued, holding up a matchstick. "Wood to metal. Soft to sharp. But what you are doing is more than reshaping. You are commanding the very nature of the object to become something else."

The matchstick in her hand gleamed, lengthened, and became a perfect silver sewing needle.

She let it rest on the desk with a gentle tap.

"Now… some magical theorists divide Transfiguration into four primary sub-branches:"

She flicked her wand. Four words appeared:

Elemental Transformation

Self-Transfiguration

Cross-Species Transfiguration

Conjuration & Vanishment

"Today's work falls under Elemental—changing the substance of one object into another. Self-Transfiguration includes Animagi, as I demonstrated. Cross-Species is biological, and more dangerous. And Conjuration and Vanishment," she said with a meaningful look, "are legally restricted beyond basic levels for good reason."

A few students scribbled furiously. Most looked overwhelmed.

But not Anatolius Weasley.

He was perfectly still. Not writing. Watching.

Not with awe—but with thought.

When she gave the command to begin—"Your goal is a needle. Begin."—she wandered the room, offering corrections and guidance.

At Anatolius's desk, the matchstick remained untouched.

"You've not begun, Mr. Weasley?"

His eyes met hers—grey-green and serious. "I've been considering the transformation."

Minerva tilted her head. "In what way?"

"Well… the spell doesn't simply disguise the matchstick as a needle, does it? It alters its essence? That is—if I drop the needle and come back in an hour, it will still be metal?"

"It will," Minerva confirmed. "Though there are limits to permanence without reinforcement. Simple transformations tend to degrade over time—unless imbued with additional magical stability."

"So… the matter is rewritten," he said softly. "Does the transformation overwrite the molecular identity? Or is it a magical overlay—a kind of illusion that forces reality to comply?"

Minerva blinked. There it was again. The question of the essence.

He's not interested in what magic does. He wants to know how reality bends to it.

"Magical theory is divided," she admitted. "Some scholars, like Aldreda Greymoor, argue for true rewriting—that the spell reconstructs the matter itself, molecule by molecule. Others, like Emeric Waffling, believe the spell suspends reality in a false, magically-maintained state—like pressing a weight onto pliable clay. Effective, but temporary."

"And you?" Anatolius asked.

Minerva almost smiled.

Bold. But not rude.

"I believe that transformation is only successful when the caster imposes both understanding and intention onto the world. It's not enough to picture a needle—you must understand what a needle is, and mean it to be so."

Anatolius nodded slowly. "So the magic doesn't just obey—it responds to your definition of truth."

Minerva raised an eyebrow. "Precisely."

She watched him finally raise his wand, then murmured the incantation. His matchstick trembled—shimmered. Not quite a needle yet. But something had begun.

She reminded herself to keep an eye on him and thought:

Weasley, Anatolius – Inquisitive, abstract thinker. Inclined toward magical philosophy. Keep watch on his technical execution—prone to delay in pursuit of theoretical perfection. Excellent potential.

As the lesson closed and students filed out, Anatolius lingered briefly at the door. Just long enough to say:

"Professor… is it true that some transformations can become permanent, even after the magic fades?"

Minerva met his gaze. "It is true," she said. "But that sort of spell is not cast by wandwork alone. It requires mastery of identity—yours, and the object's."

Anatolius gave a small nod.

And Minerva, once again, made a note:

This one may follow dangerous questions.