[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 21

"Nonlinear topology truly is a convenient thing," Kayneth mused as he stood by the window, gazing down at the forest hidden beneath layers of magical barriers. Absentmindedly, he would occasionally open his magic circuits, letting a small amount of power flow to make the air tremble or swirl around him—a simple exercise to train his body. Not that anyone could see him. Despite the early morning light, it was only six o’clock, and every other student was still fast asleep after the previous day’s excitement and fear.

The previous night had been a whirlwind. After the feast, the first-years had been led away by the prefects to their respective dormitories, where they received their introductory speech and a brief orientation. Then came the room assignments and settling in, and it was nearly ten by the time everything finally quieted down. For eleven-year-olds, getting only six or seven hours of sleep was still a struggle, but Kayneth, despite the limitations of his body, had spent the past year and a half often getting by on just four hours of light rest, pushing himself to fit everything into his schedule.

Now, with the memories stirred by the Dementors beginning to fade and retreat once more, he allowed himself a moment of relaxation—a rare lapse in vigilance. He would be spending months surrounded by dozens of children and teenagers, all of whom possessed dangerous mystical codes. Maintaining the same level of paranoia that was previously necessary for survival among gangsters and black-market traders would eventually lead to someone's untimely demise. He needed to adapt to the atmosphere here, to tolerate the inevitable noise, the endless questions, the pointless conversations, and the mindless games. Perhaps even engage in them himself—at least enough to avoid suspicion. Maintaining his cover required sacrifices. He had chosen this path himself.

For now, blending in was crucial. He needed to establish himself within the student body, ensure his cover remained intact, and only later, once he had fully assessed the environment and determined the key players, could he begin acting more freely.

Still, things weren’t as bad as he had feared. At the very least, concerns about overcrowding—an unavoidable issue when cramming over a hundred students into a single tower—had not been as severe as expected. Everyone had enough personal space, which was a relief. In hindsight, he should have remembered that Hogwarts was originally built to house a thousand students, yet today, the total population barely reached two-thirds of that. The founders had either been extraordinarily optimistic or had once planned to accommodate a much larger magical population than just Britain and Ireland.

Regardless, each dormitory was designed to house nearly three hundred students—seven years, forty students per year, with extra rooms in case of particularly large intakes or an imbalance between boys and girls. The main common room branched into two winding staircases—one leading to the boys' dormitories, the other to the girls'. Each side had seven floors, with several doors on each, leading to four-person rooms.

This year, Ravenclaw had admitted twelve boys and ten girls. Since the rooms accommodated four students each, six rooms had been opened—three on each side. The rest remained hidden within the magically twisted architecture of the tower, sealed away by the castle’s intricate spatial manipulations and protective enchantments. Next year, if the intake was larger or smaller, the dormitory layout would simply shift to accommodate.

With such extensive spatial manipulation available, it would have been easy to assign each student their own private room—something Archibald would have strongly preferred. However, it seemed that socialization, camaraderie, and all the other virtues Dumbledore had droned on about in his speech took precedence. Even if someone wanted to use their family’s influence or wealth to secure special accommodations—common practice among students of the Clock Tower—it simply wasn’t an option here.

Still, he couldn’t complain about his current roommates.

As per Ravenclaw’s tradition of maximum autonomy, students were left to sort out room assignments on their own, without prefect intervention. Naturally, MacAvoy had chosen to room with him since they already knew each other. Soon after, another boy had approached—someone Kayneth vaguely recognized.

"Simon Kerry, from Newport. You’re James, right? We met in June, in Ireland. You brought that girl with the lightsaber to the meeting. Mind if I join you two?"

"No problem," Kayneth agreed easily, though he did ask, "Did you come with someone that time? I don’t think we met in the magical quarter before."

"Yeah, Euphie invited me. Said it’d be interesting, and that it was about time I met other wizards."

"Euphemia Sunset?" Kayneth recalled the young witch he had spoken to a few times on Diagon Alley—the one with an almost religious dedication to floor-length Victorian dresses. For her age, she had an impressive grasp of potions and ingredients. In fact, Kayneth suspected she could already pass second-year exams in that subject. They had had plenty to discuss.

"Yep. We’ve known each other since preschool, went to the same primary school, lived nearby. But I only found out she was a witch this spring. I mean, she seemed like a normal girl—aside from the weird name—but I never would’ve guessed. She saw me accidentally levitate a book one day and decided to tell me everything about magic, since we’d be starting school together in September anyway. It’s a shame we got sorted into different houses, but I guess it’s not a big deal."

The fourth occupant of their room was a tall, quiet boy who introduced himself simply as "Irwin Ross" and had immediately stacked an impressive pile of books on his nightstand before retreating into them, barely acknowledging anyone else.

So far, everything had gone smoothly. The arrival, the Sorting, settling into the dormitory—there had been no slip-ups. No one had realized the truth about him. No alarms had been raised, no one had tried to "save" the supposedly possessed Murphy from an invading soul. The Sorting Hat might have been a potential risk, but Kayneth had chosen to trust its claim that it could not reveal others’ secrets. That was a common restriction for spirits bound to artifacts—they were usually programmed with strict limitations, preventing them from sharing information beyond their primary function.

Of course, staying cautious was still necessary. But not beyond the level he had already planned.

As for the Hat’s cryptic comment about "strange students"—Kayneth chose not to dwell on it.

He had no doubt that the mercenary and Waver Velvet had both died in the Holy Grail War mere days after him. Given the existence of multiple worlds, the odds of a soul transfer and survival were astronomically low. With an estimated two million wizards worldwide and eleven major magical schools, the likelihood of encountering another reincarnated individual in this specific place was about as likely as two icebergs meeting in the open ocean.

If that talkative artifact had intended to instill paranoia in him, to make him see enemies everywhere, it had failed.

His desire for revenge still burned strong—but he was, above all else, a realist.

Returning to school matters, yesterday they had been given a general overview of the students' daily schedule, and it turned out to be rather lenient. First-years had six to eight lessons a day, not counting additional studies and homework, with two full days off each week. Their exact timetables would be handed out before classes today, but it was unlikely that the first couple of days would involve anything too intense or requiring heavy use of magic.

That meant Kayneth could safely spend part of his reserves on training his own magic circuits without worrying about running out of energy during lessons. Back home, he had struggled to maintain a consistent training schedule due to his erratic routine and the constant need to expend magic on various minor enchantments for sale or healer’s work. Here, however, he intended to take it seriously.

He had set himself a goal—by the time he reached his third year, he wanted his body to be capable of using all his available circuits simultaneously. Right now, that would result in severe pain, at best knocking him unconscious, at worst causing serious cardiovascular issues due to a sudden spike in body temperature.

"Jim, why are you up so early?" came MacAvoy’s half-asleep voice from behind him.

"I'm used to waking up early. You should get into the habit too," Kayneth replied, glancing at the mechanical watch on his wrist. "It’s quarter to seven. Wake-up call is in fifteen minutes, then the house meeting, and by half-past eight, we need to be at breakfast. I doubt it’s a good idea to be late on the first day. If you actually care about house points and competition, I suggest waking the others."

Turning away, Kayneth left the room and descended one flight of stairs, stepping into the nearly empty common room, where the fireplace was still glowing faintly with dying embers. He was dressed in his usual cloak—Ravenclaw encouraged individuality, allowing students to wear whatever they liked outside of lessons as long as it wasn’t disruptive, which suited him perfectly. Settling into a chair by the window, he picked up a forgotten book from a nearby table—a reference guide on magical epidemics—and started reading out of curiosity.

True to Ravenclaw’s reputation, the common room housed countless bookshelves, cabinets, and stacks of grimoires, with additional volumes scattered across windowsills, tables, and even the floor. There was no discernible order to them—either one had never been established, or it had been lost to time. Finding something useful was always possible; finding something specific was the real challenge.

The book he had picked up detailed one of the downsides of being part of the magical population—magical creatures and beasts carried unique diseases, often harmless to ordinary people but dangerous to those with active magic circuits. Some, like lycanthropy, were just as deadly to Muggles, but most of these "diseases" were less biological in nature and more like ancient curses that had evolved to parasitize magic circuits, spreading from one magus to another.

For someone like Murphy, who had been born and raised outside the magical world, this presented a real risk—he had no "immunity" to these ailments. It would be worth checking the library to see if wizards had developed anything akin to "vaccinations" against such conditions or if their approach was purely reactive—curing infections after they occurred, with no guarantee of success.

As the common room gradually filled with students emerging from their dormitories, Kayneth remained undisturbed. Most still weren’t in their school robes, preferring to change just before breakfast. To anyone passing by, he was just another first-year with a book. By quarter to eight, most of the house had managed to wake up and get themselves presentable, and the prefects began their scheduled meeting.

Nothing particularly notable was discussed—new subjects, new professors, classroom locations, and directions to get there.

"Thanks for helping with the Dementor, James," someone said quietly nearby.

Kayneth turned to see Luna Lovegood standing beside him in a black dress. He hadn't been sure she even remembered anything from yesterday's incident—or him, for that matter. But it seemed he had underestimated her.

"You're welcome. Believe me, I have plenty of reasons to hate them too," he replied honestly.

"I understand," she said in an unusually serious tone. "But still, thank you. It’s just a shame that because of me, the other first-years got dragged into it."

"That wasn’t your fault. The blame lies with whatever lunatic decided to unleash dark spirits on a train full of children. And I’d love to ask them a few questions about it. I’m sure I’m not the only one—if not yesterday, then today, at least a few hundred owls will be leaving the school with letters home."

"I doubt it’ll change anything," she said, then added in her usual dreamy tone, "But in any case, we’re classmates now, so if you ever need anything—just call, and I’ll come."

"Noted. But for now, everything seems clear enough. Although… if you have some free time, would you mind showing me how to use Exaphanistei? I couldn’t find anything useful about it in the books—just brief mentions."

"I can show you on the weekend, but not here," she said, her voice dropping lower. Anything related to the Inquisition was not something to be discussed openly. "And it’s difficult. I still haven’t mastered it properly, as you saw."

"Since when has difficulty ever stopped us?"

"I suppose it hasn’t. They might even praise us for learning it—right before expelling us for studying magic that, according to official sources, never existed. Or maybe they’d expel us first and praise us afterward. As a consolation."

For the first two weeks, first-years were guided around the castle in rotating shifts by the house prefects. There were no maps available to them, and the internal structure of the castle was constantly shifting—moving staircases, changing corridors, and sudden new passages.

There was almost certainly a pattern to it, whether tied to the days of the week, the pulsations of ley lines beneath the school, or even astronomical cycles. But it was something first-years—especially in Ravenclaw—were expected to figure out for themselves.

As they walked, Kayneth paid little attention to the placement of windows or the decor of hallways and rooms. Instead, he focused on the structure of the magical barriers, the energy flows that formed new paths between fixed points in the castle.

Perhaps this entire system had been designed precisely to train young wizards in sensing magic and navigating it. Or perhaps the founders simply wanted to break students out of the rigid logic of the "normal" world and immerse them in the fluid, unpredictable nature of magic itself.

There were many theories about it, even among wizards.

One of the few constant places in the castle, one that didn’t shift between floors or towers, was the Great Hall. It served as a gathering place for feasts and celebrations and, on ordinary days, as a dining hall for all the students and professors. For now, however, the teachers didn’t interest Kayneth—he would meet them in class soon enough. Instead, he studied the nearly full hall, searching for familiar faces among students from other houses.

As expected, Granger and her group were at the Gryffindor table, deep in conversation with the half-giant gamekeeper, who, according to her, had now also become a professor. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy’s group was theatrically pretending to faint one by one, much to the amusement of those around them, though Kayneth failed to see what was so funny.

The boy who had helped fend off the Dementor turned out to be a Hufflepuff, likely a sixth or seventh-year. He showed no interest in the newly arrived first-years.

Among his own age group—those he had met over the past year or on the train—Rivers had been sorted into Slytherin. Nearby sat a girl with long, curly hair, Euphemia Sunset, a friend of his new dormmate. Nort had gone to Gryffindor, as had Morris, whose house he had visited in June. Pix, Evergreen, Kinley, Taggart… There were at least two or three familiar faces in each house. Not bad. He could only hope that they weren’t completely incompetent, so he might be able to organize them for something useful in the future.

Then, suddenly, Kayneth stopped dead in his tracks. Someone bumped into him from behind, but he barely registered it. For a split second, in the sea of faces, he thought he had seen Sola.

He knew it was impossible, of course. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then opened them again and looked toward the same spot. Just a girl with unnaturally red, almost crimson hair—likely the result of charms or potions. She looked about seventeen. Any resemblance was distant at best.

"Hey, why’d you stop?" a fellow first-year asked. Kayneth hadn’t learned his name yet.

"Sorry. Thought I saw something," he replied dismissively. Then, deciding not to lie for no reason, he added, "Damn Dementors. They make you see things that aren’t there."

"Yeah, those things are the worst," the boy immediately agreed, nodding sympathetically. "I could barely sleep last night because of them. Kept hearing things. By the way, I’m Ryan."

"James," Kayneth introduced himself.

Breakfast wasn’t anything special compared to last night’s feast—simple, filling, but decent, especially considering the food wasn’t even prepared by humans. It was, after all, a boarding school, not some luxury resort. Here, students were expected to focus on their studies, not their meals. No personal service either, regardless of family influence or wealth—just another way Hogwarts kept things equal.

By nine o’clock, after navigating more staircases and corridors (some of which threatened to change position right underfoot), lessons began. Some students had been eagerly awaiting this moment, while others were dreading it.

By coincidence or design, Ravenclaw’s first-years had Charms as their first two lessons, taught by their Head of House, Professor Filius Flitwick. A half-goblin, he was smaller than some of the eleven-year-olds in the room, but underestimating him would be a mistake. Everyone Kayneth had spoken to about Flitwick agreed on one thing: the professor knew an incredible number of spells, mastered many of them to perfection, and had even invented some himself.

That said, Kayneth didn’t expect much from the first lesson. Granger had mentioned that Wingardium Leviosa was a "first Charms lesson," but she had meant the first practical lesson.

And actual practice wouldn’t start for another two months.

Until then, they would endure what was essentially military-style drilling—repeating wand movements and pronunciation exercises over and over. Given that some students struggled not just with Latin but even with long English words, and that many had poor coordination, it wasn’t an unreasonable approach.

Flitwick recommended a few games and exercises to improve finger dexterity and control, as well as tongue twisters—both in English and Latin. But that was all assigned as independent study. In class, they focused on repeating half a dozen wand movements and reciting the corresponding incantations in Latin, Greek, and Old English. The professor made it clear that until everyone could perform them flawlessly, there would be no actual spellcasting.

As Kayneth had learned from Granger, the theoretical aspect was mostly left for self-study. If it were up to him, he would have structured the course differently—starting with theory: mana and Od, the function of wands, the mechanics of mystic codes, conceptual interference with reality, spell incantations, and the conditioning of reflexes.

But he understood that Hogwarts was a school, not a university. There was a significant difference between teaching twenty-year-old magi and children who had only recently turned eleven. It was easier for them to memorize standard wand motions than to grasp the intricacies of how mana and Od mixed during spellcasting, or how to calculate the proper length of a mystic code's path and the ratio between internal and external magical energy.

The real problem, however, was that this way of thinking became ingrained. Treating spells as fixed elements, rather than flexible tools, simplified the learning process but also limited magical creativity. Many students would carry this rigid mindset into adulthood, making it harder for them to use magic freely or adapt their spellwork.

Perhaps Hogwarts delved deeper into spell interactions in the sixth and seventh years, after students passed their first exams. But Kayneth remained convinced that understanding these mechanisms should be taught from the start, not postponed until later.

Still, for now, he found this method of learning beneficial. He lacked the ingrained reflexes for spellcasting that others had developed from childhood, aside from a few key spells he had practiced extensively.

One thing that puzzled him, however, was the selection of spells taught to first-years. In his opinion, counter-charms, universal shields, or basic healing spells should have been prioritized. Instead, they were learning fire-starting, cutting, locking, levitation, and similar spells.

Perhaps the curriculum was designed around contrasting effects—cutting and mending, locking and unlocking, lifting and cushioning falls. Or maybe the textbook’s author had chosen spells based purely on variety of movements and incantations, rather than practicality.

Either way, he would follow the curriculum for now.

But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t supplement it with his own studies.

The next two lessons before lunch were dedicated to Herbology, the study of magical plants and, to a lesser extent, some mundane ones useful in potion-making. The first session was mostly a demonstration—students were introduced to a variety of semi-sentient carnivorous plants, either originating from exotic regions or bred by wizards in antiquity and the Middle Ages, before excessive experimentation with new species was restricted by law.

One such specimen was a seemingly harmless, two-meter-high shrub designed to entangle, strangle, and eventually digest any thieves who dared to slip past what appeared to be a safe, thornless hedge. According to modern Ministry standards, such things were no longer condoned under the Statute of Secrecy, though some enthusiasts still planted them around their homes in honor of their proud family traditions.

Other specimens included a variety of toxic and carnivorous plants, such as the searing antennaria, and a tropical lichen capable of parasitizing magical creatures and wizards alike, feeding on their energy. Professor Sprout—a plump, kind-looking woman and the head of Hufflepuff—delivered all of this with cheerful enthusiasm. Her promise that students would have the chance to study these plants up close and even handle them in later years did little to reassure anyone. If anything, it only made them more nervous. Perhaps, though, that was her way of encouraging even the laziest students to read their textbooks and reference materials out of sheer self-preservation.

The second, more practical lesson was far tamer. Students were given the task of identifying various non-magical plants based on their flowers, leaves, roots, or even scent. It wasn’t the most challenging exercise, but those who had grown up in London or other large cities could easily mistake heather for juniper—or, in more extreme cases, confuse reeds with bamboo or mistake the sharp scent of wormwood for elderflower.

And yet, in just a week's time, they would all be expected to brew potions. The mere thought of someone tossing kudzu leaves into a cauldron instead of hops or mistaking field thistle for dandelion—just because they couldn’t properly identify the right ingredient—was enough to make Kayneth uneasy. He briefly considered bringing along a few defensive and combat-oriented mystic codes to the lesson, just in case. Better that than having to heal wounds from some magical disaster caused by an unintentional misstep.

So, while Kayneth fully acknowledged the importance of this subject, his interest lay more in magical plants—many of which had long gone extinct in his own world, some having vanished millennia ago, while others existed only in minute, highly protected quantities. For now, however, he didn’t push himself into the spotlight. He identified a few herbs and seedlings, described two or three of their uses in potion-making, and earned a few points for Ravenclaw, but he was far from being the best in the class.

The real standouts were Karin Taylor, a bespectacled Muggle-born who had been deeply invested in biology and botany even before coming to Hogwarts, and Ryan Willin, the boy Kayneth had met that morning—son of a professional apothecary and determined not to let "some Muggle" outshine him in his strongest subject. Fortunately, there were no insults or debates over blood purity. Professor Sprout skillfully channeled their academic rivalry into a friendly competition, ultimately benefiting the entire class by providing more learning opportunities.

But after lunch came an ordeal that few had anticipated: a double-length History of Magic lesson, taught by none other than the school's resident ghost.

Kayneth had to admit—Granger, Lovegood, and Tonks hadn’t been exaggerating about how dreadful this class was. If anything, they had softened the reality.

First, there was the professor himself: Cuthbert Binns, a ghost who had been dead for at least ten or fifteen years before any of the current first-years were even born. From Kayneth’s perspective as a magus specializing in spiritual studies, this was already a top contender for the most absurd and illogical aspects of Hogwarts.

Even the most self-aware ghosts lose the ability to retain new information, learn, or develop over time. They convincingly mimic speech and even the thought patterns of their former selves, but they have little sense of time, often forgetting the living people around them and endlessly repeating the same behaviors, conversations, and lectures year after year.

There were, of course, exceptions—higher-order shades, such as the Heroic Spirits summoned by the Grail, retained a striking degree of intelligence, adaptability, and even individual motivations. But they, too, were ultimately just sophisticated copies, mere echoes of the original heroic souls.

So what did that say about a ghost who had emerged through "natural" means rather than a carefully constructed ritual or a high-level mystery?

Technically, Binns was fulfilling his role. He lectured on his subject, seemingly from memory, and had likely been delivering the same word-for-word speech since at least the Grindelwald uprising. But he hardly acknowledged students’ questions or requests for clarification, droning on in a monotone as if unaware of whether his audience was even present or listening.

He hadn’t even properly introduced himself. He simply floated into the room, murmured something unintelligible, and launched straight into a rambling lecture on how the British wizarding world viewed the Wild Hunt. He continuously jumped between Gwyn ap Nudd and the Cŵn Annwn, as if conflating two distinct legends into one without realizing it.

Kayneth was fairly certain he could have explained the topic more coherently from memory. Hell, even Lovegood would likely have done a better job—sure, she would have embellished half of it with her own interpretations, but at least she would make it engaging, in the grand tradition of old storytellers and bards.

What was the point of all this? Had Dumbledore really been unable to find a single living historian to fill the position? Was the school trying to save money, since a ghost obviously didn’t need a salary, food, or accommodations?

Or was this some kind of test for students—forcing them to develop independent research skills and study historical sources on their own? After all, the O.W.L. exam for History of Magic was a Ministry requirement.

Tonks had once mentioned that she had to study Grindelwald’s political ideology on her own, and Kayneth doubted they would hear much about Voldemort’s rebellion from Binns, given that the ghost had died before it even began and had no inclination—or, arguably, even the ability—to learn about events that had occurred after his death.

As most of the class slipped into a meditative trance—or, more likely, a well-earned post-lunch nap—Kayneth pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil, sketching ideas for a set of mystic codes suitable for everyday wear. These would be built around local spells, ensuring they wouldn't draw unnecessary attention. What he had brought from home was meant for life-threatening situations—whether it be a possessed professor, a lunatic, or some criminal forcing their way into the school with no regard for casualties. For everyday conflicts among first-years or stray spells, he needed something non-lethal, subtle, and far less conspicuous than a mercury whip or a replica of Gáe Bulg.

At the moment, aside from his wand, he only carried the hilt of his imitation "Black Key"—hardly sufficient for serious confrontations and entirely unsuitable for the childish duels and squabbles that inevitably arose among students. Even by the standards of the Clock Tower, that would be considered excessive. And besides, the act of crafting mystic codes itself could prove quite profitable.

Casually, he wondered what might happen if Binns were to be "accidentally" exorcised, bound into an object, enslaved to someone else's will, or outright banished. Would the school finally hire a more competent instructor? Would they officially leave the subject for self-study? Or would it become another "cursed" position like Defense Against the Dark Arts, churning through increasingly unqualified candidates until the role became a revolving door of incompetence?

Not that he considered history particularly vital—especially given the Ministry's relentless censorship of "inconvenient" truths—but having a general grasp was essential. History shaped politics, dictated the evolution of magical institutions, revealed the distribution of mysteries across the world, and even hinted at the locations of ancient artifacts. Still, for now, he wouldn't act rashly. It was far too early to start reshaping the school to his liking—at least not before he had a clear grasp of the internal barrier structures, surveillance spells, and defensive wards in place. Drawing attention to himself in the first week by making drastic changes would be… childish.

That lesson ended with some difficulty, as it took considerable effort to wake the sleeping students. It marked the end of the first day of classes for Ravenclaw first-years. Normally, a full schedule consisted of at least eight lessons—four before lunch, two double periods in the afternoon, followed by clubs, electives, or detentions until dinner. However, it seemed the administration didn’t want to crush their enthusiasm too soon with a brutal workload, so by three o’clock, a yawning group of students was met outside the classroom by a sixth-year prefect (whose name no one had yet remembered). He led them on a tour of the castle and its surroundings, emphasizing the importance of sticking together, keeping an eye on their peers, and—above all—not getting lost.

Given the castle’s ever-changing layout and the sheer incompetence of younger students in navigating shifting corridors and moving staircases, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to go missing in the first few weeks. Rumors abounded about those who had vanished entirely—trapped somewhere in forgotten hallways, wandering lost through time itself—but no reputable history book had ever confirmed such cases. It was more a piece of Hogwarts folklore than an established fact.

Fortunately, no one got lost this time. The group toured the castle towers, the Trophy Room, various classrooms, and the offices of the Heads of Houses. Along the way, the prefect regaled them with an endless stream of stories, no doubt embellishing at least two-thirds of the details. They passed through the infamous corridor where, just six months ago, a second-year student had gotten into a fight with a possessed professor, miscalculated her own strength, and was thrown out the window into the courtyard below. This particular event had only recently cemented itself into Hogwarts history, but it was already a well-known landmark. A new school tradition had even emerged—students regularly burned the letters "V.P.L." into the stone floor at the scene of the battle using Flagrante or other fire magic. The house-elves diligently scrubbed it clean each time, which only encouraged students to experiment with stronger and more durable spells.

After the castle tour, they explored the grounds—places they had only glimpsed upon arrival. They were shown the Quidditch pitch, the road leading to Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest’s edge (where even looking too long was supposedly against the rules), the shallows of the Black Lake, and a handful of other landmarks.

By the time they trudged back into the Ravenclaw common room around five o’clock, exhausted and barely able to keep their legs moving, they were finally allowed a moment of respite—to put their books away, change clothes, and catch their breath after the unexpectedly grueling trek. Before dinner, they were encouraged to consider which clubs or extracurriculars they might want to join. Participation was entirely voluntary, but it was highly encouraged by both professors and upperclassmen.

They even received a preliminary list of options, though recruitment notices and announcements for new clubs would continue appearing throughout September—if not longer. Kayneth had no intention of wasting time on such things. His schedule was already packed with his own studies and projects. The only club that might have interested him was the painting club, which seemed like a decent way to relieve stress. Unfortunately, it was exclusive to Gryffindor, and founding another one for either Ravenclaw or the entire school would be too much of a hassle. But painting could still be done in his own time—it was a surprisingly effective way to clear his mind and think things through in a calm environment.

After dinner, students had a few hours of free time before curfew—time for independent study, relaxation, or socializing for those lucky enough to avoid being buried under a mountain of assignments. First-years were advised to go to bed early in preparation for their first double Transfiguration lesson the next day. The warning was vague but ominous:

"McGonagall is not our Head of House."

Whatever that was supposed to mean, it was enough to make them all take the upcoming lesson seriously.

"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts…"

Kayneth listened to McGonagall’s introduction with little interest. Every single one of the core disciplines (aside from, perhaps, History, Astronomy, and the so-called "Muggle Studies") could be considered challenging at an advanced level. Each of them carried its own dangers—especially for beginners. A careless wizard who preferred sleep and idle chatter to actual studying could just as easily die by spellwork, potion mishap, transfiguration accident, mishandling a magical creature, or even misjudging an aggressive plant.

Would it make much difference whether someone burned themselves alive with Incendio, cast on themselves instead of their target, or transfigured a nearby table into a writhing mass of chains and blades?

And then there were potions—one wrong ingredient order, and a harmless elixir meant to rejuvenate skin could just as easily turn into a cloud of chlorine gas or an explosion of nitrogen triiodide, which would detonate the moment it came into contact with an open flame.

Kayneth understood the risks. The real question was: did everyone else?

After the lecture, Professor McGonagall, like the other professors, provided a practical demonstration, transforming her desk into a pig and then back again. Then, unexpectedly, she initiated a hands-on exercise. She wrote several lengthy formulas on the board, which the students were expected to memorize, and then, with a simple spell, distributed matches to each desk. The task was straightforward in its instruction—use those formulas to transfigure at least one match into a needle.

Just like that. No explanation of the principles behind the spell, no theoretical discussion on transmutation, no breakdown of transformation sequences.

To be honest, Archibald was somewhat impressed by this approach. From the very first lesson, this woman operated under the assumption that first-years had already read and memorized at least half of the first-year Transfiguration textbook and could now apply that knowledge without prior guidance.

Alternatively, McGonagall seemed to believe they could flawlessly replicate the recorded formulas without even the faintest understanding of what they were, what led to what, and how the process worked internally.

A third possibility was that she intended to structure her entire course around overcoming initial failure—giving students an impossible task first and then gradually guiding them toward success in subsequent lessons.

Whichever the case, it explained yesterday’s warnings. If this was her standard approach every year, it was no wonder some students struggled. If his old alchemy tutor had used such radical methods, Kayneth might have become a master in his original discipline three years earlier than he had.

For now, he refrained from touching his mystic code and instead observed his classmates out of curiosity.

Simon, seated beside him, stared blankly at the formulas he had copied onto parchment as if trying to unravel some hidden truth within them.

MacAvoy, in the next row, was flipping through his textbook at a frantic pace, trying to find anything resembling their assignment. Judging by his expression, he was failing.

Taylor, seated two desks away, was nervously rubbing her glasses, clearly contemplating how to politely ask the professor what in the world they were supposed to be doing.

Irwin Ross, sitting in the last row, was already trying to cast the spell, awkwardly tracing complex figures in the air with his wand, but producing no visible results.

The rest of the class seemed to be in a similar state.

With a quiet sigh, Kayneth focused on the formulas in front of him. From what he had gathered, Transfiguration relied on two fundamental aspects—an extremely precise command, whether mental or verbal, and an exact amount of magical energy—neither more nor less than what was necessary. Both factors depended on the transformation itself: what the object was, what it needed to become, and how long the change would last.

As far as beginner-level tasks went, this one was actually well-chosen.

They were transforming an object of similar shape, but with a complex composition—a matchstick consisting of a wooden shaft and a chemically treated head. The wooden part was organic, while the head contained a mix of compounds, including potassium chlorate, lead oxide, sulfur, and other substances.

Yet the goal was to turn the entire thing into a uniform metal object, preferably low-alloy steel or at least iron.

A skilled alchemist—like Kayneth himself—could, of course, calculate the proper transmutation circle to restructure these elements accordingly. But that would take so much time and energy that any rational magus would simply order a box of sewing needles from the nearest shop and hurl it at whoever had suggested such an inefficient solution.

However, Transfiguration didn’t function on the same level as full-fledged alchemical transmutation. It was closer to Projection and Reinforcement—temporary rather than permanent, conceptual rather than purely chemical.

That difference drastically reduced the energy cost and shifted the focus to manipulating the object’s properties as a whole rather than breaking it down on an elemental level.

Placing a second sheet of parchment beside the first, Kayneth took up his quill—his proficiency with which he had been forced to relearn six months before school started—and began breaking the transformation down into its individual components.

Two main concepts were being applied here—one for form and one for material. A needle and steel. Neither was strictly defined—was it a hand-sewing needle or a machine-made one? Chromium steel or molybdenum steel?

Regardless, that part was simple enough.

The real challenge was transforming a multi-material object into a single homogeneous structure. The key was ensuring that the spell affected the entire matchstick as a single entity, rather than producing two separate metal needles—one from the wood and one from the chemically-treated head—or worse, half a dozen tiny, malformed fragments if the different chemical compounds converted independently.

This was the hardest part of constructing the command—encompassing the object as a whole while preventing the spell from spilling over and transmuting the desk underneath it.

The latter was a real danger if a student attempted to brute-force the spell, flooding their wand with excess energy in the hope that sheer power would make the transformation succeed.

"Why are we even doing this?" Simon Kerry muttered beside him, clearly frustrated.

"What do you mean?" Kayneth asked.

"This transformation," Kerry clarified. "I mean, I can’t think of a single situation where I’d desperately need a needle but only have a match on hand. And if I’ve got a wand, why wouldn’t I just use Diffindo? Or whatever spell it is that can pierce things?"

"Aculeus."

"Yeah, that one."

"You’re thinking too small," Kayneth said. "Or rather, not broadly enough. Try expanding your perspective."

Kerry’s blank stare made it clear he had no idea what Kayneth meant.

With a sigh, Kayneth offered an obvious example. "Let’s say you’re walking through a magical forest. And something attacks you—an Acromantula, an Arsuri, a Foa, or some other mid-sized but fast-moving creature. Many of them have natural resistance to magic, and between the trees, good luck actually landing a spell on them. And trying to fend them off with the nearest branch… well, you’re not Lancelot."

"What does Lancelot have to do with anything?"

"Because he—" Kayneth stopped himself, suddenly wondering what exactly British children were taught in school these days.

Finding a simpler way to explain, he asked, "You know Luna Lovegood? Second-year, light blonde hair?"

"The one who always looks like she’s talking to a dozen imaginary friends at once?"

"…Yes. Ask her about Lancelot and a branch tonight. She’ll explain in excruciating detail."

Kerry still looked lost, so Kayneth pressed on. "The point is, a stick won’t help you much. But if you learn to transfigure wood into steel, then instead of a useless branch, you have a rapier or a sword. And suddenly, your situation isn’t so hopeless—one hand keeps your opponent at bay with a blade while the other prepares a spell."

For the first time, Kerry seemed to seriously consider the idea.

Kayneth returned his focus to his parchment, resuming his breakdown of the spell.

Now, that was a practical application of Transfiguration.

Simon raised a skeptical eyebrow. "But I don’t know how to fight with a sword or a rapier," he pointed out reasonably. "And I doubt I'll learn here—if I understood correctly, Hogwarts doesn’t even have a single club dedicated to proper sports, just flying."

"You can learn on your own," Kayneth replied. "Order books from home or buy them during the holidays, go through the exercises, and practice. The most important thing is the will to learn—if you have that, the opportunities will follow. And if nothing else, you could always get better at Transfiguration and figure out a formula to turn a stick into a pistol. That would make things easier."

"Wait, is that even possible? That’s a—what do they call it here?—a ‘Muggle object.’ I doubt there’s a spell for something like that."

"Even if there isn't, you could always invent one. That’s the beauty of Transfiguration—you can turn anything into anything else. Within natural limits, of course."

"What kind of limits…?"

"Mr. Murphy, Mr. Kerry, have you already completed your assigned task if you have time for such a lengthy discussion?" came Professor McGonagall’s stern voice, cutting through their conversation.

"Apologies, Professor," Kayneth rose from his seat with practiced politeness. "We were discussing the potential of Transfiguration, but Simon raised a question that I believe you could answer far better than I. And it may be of interest to the rest of the class."

"Is that so?" McGonagall regarded him with her usual sharp gaze. "And what question would that be?"

"What are the natural limits of Transfiguration? It’s said that anything can be turned into anything else, but only within certain boundaries. What exactly defines those boundaries?"

"Well, that is indeed a very good question, though I am usually asked this much later in a student’s education," the professor said, scanning the class. Noting that several students were now paying attention, she nodded. "Very well, I’ll explain."

She turned to the blackboard, and with a flick of her wand, chalk began writing as she spoke.

"There are two primary limitations. The first—'Complexity.' The greater the difference between two objects, the harder it is to transform one into the other. The calculations required to account for differences in shape, material, structure, and magical properties become exponentially more difficult. At a certain point, even the most skilled wizard cannot perform the necessary transformations without making errors or failing to sustain the spell."

She gestured, and the chalk moved to the second point. "The second—'Power.' The larger or more intricate an object is, the stronger the wizard must be to successfully alter it. For example, a fifth-year student could transform a dog into a bucket or a goat into a barrel. But even the most accomplished Transfiguration masters, including myself and the Headmaster, could not turn a whale into a ship—not even temporarily. The magic required simply surpasses any known wizard’s capacity, even if the theoretical formula for such a transformation could be devised."

She paused before concluding, "There are additional minor constraints—some objective, others legal—but we will cover those in due time. These two, however, are the fundamental factors. Have I answered your question, Mr. Murphy?"

"Yes, Professor. Thank you very much."

"Then return to your assignment. You still have nearly an hour left. And five points to Ravenclaw for intellectual curiosity—your House stays true to its reputation."

As soon as McGonagall walked away, Simon muttered under his breath, "Smooth save."

Kayneth merely shrugged and turned back to his work. Or, more accurately, to studying the assigned task. If he followed the formulas precisely, factoring in all the variables, he could likely complete the exercise on the second or third attempt. However, revealing too much of his capability too soon would be unwise—especially with a task that was clearly designed to exceed the abilities of a beginner. Instead, he focused on observing McGonagall’s teaching methods and how she structured her explanations.

Transfiguration, after all, was just another branch of magic to dissect and analyze—particularly from the lens of disciplines he was more familiar with, such as Alchemy. It was a good opportunity to cross-reference formulas, compare energy expenditures, and determine the magnitude of magic required for different transformations. No one had yet explained how the necessary amount of magical energy could be derived from the elemental properties of the original and target objects, but Kayneth had his own approach.

He drew a circle on his parchment, then inscribed a pentagram inside it, marking the five elemental forces in the margins. The core process involved the conversion of Earth and Fire into another form of Earth, but the complexity of the material structure introduced additional variables. If only Transfiguration were rooted in the Chinese Wu Xing system instead of traditional Western Alchemy, which relied on Plato and Aristotle’s five elements. In that case, Metal and Wood would already be recognized as fundamental elements, making certain transformations much simpler.

He wondered what an Eastern school of magic would assign as its introductory exercise—perhaps transmuting foam into ceramic tiles, given that Chinese alchemy didn’t even acknowledge Air as a primary element. It would certainly ensure that students didn’t become complacent.

Eventually, just before the end of class, he presented his result to the professor—a matchstick, perfectly reshaped into the form of a sewing needle but retaining its wooden composition. He had deliberately introduced minor errors into the spellwork, keeping the transformation incomplete. Even with his natural ability, it would be unrealistic for an eleven-year-old to execute the spell flawlessly without prior theoretical instruction.

As expected, only three students managed to produce any results at all. Ross had succeeded in reshaping his object as well, though his needle had rough, angular edges rather than a smooth cylindrical shape. A pure-blooded witch named Selwyn had managed to alter the wooden portion of her matchstick into metal, though the effect was patchy.

After receiving a few house points, the group left the classroom and followed the prefect back to Ravenclaw Tower. Their double Transfiguration lesson had been the last class of the day, leaving them with plenty of free time before dinner. During the first week, first-years weren’t allowed to roam the castle unsupervised—too many students had been lost in shifting staircases or trapped in forgotten corridors over the years. Some had even wandered into the Forbidden Forest.

However, when Kayneth asked the prefect to show him the library, the request was met with approval, and half a dozen other students eagerly joined him. The rest of their classmates chose to wait until the weekend or, more likely, until they had an assignment due in a few hours and no other choice. Ravenclaws were known for their creativity and intelligence, but diligence and time management were far from universal traits.

As the heavy doors swung open, they were met with the sight of towering shelves stretching far into the dimly lit hall, lined with thousands of books. Tomes floated through the air, summoned by unseen hands, shifting positions in response to commands. The walls and ceiling faded into shadows, with only a few scattered lamps providing soft illumination. Anyone wishing to read was expected to conjure their own source of light.

It might not have been the Clock Tower’s Grand Archive, but in size and grandeur, it was comparable.

And almost every single one of these books, manuscripts, and grimoires contained knowledge Kayneth had never seen before.

Taking in the scent of ink, parchment, and dust, he allowed himself a rare moment of honesty.

This… this was absolutely worth it.