In Transfiguration class, Professor McGonagall was as strict as ever. But when she saw Sean, along with the recently recovered Hermione and Ron, return to their seats, a rare smile of relief softened her expression.
"Today's lesson," she began crisply, "you will each transfigure the mouse in front of you into a wine jug. As usual, the result must be exquisite enough to reflect your personal level of Transfiguration. Let's begin."
At her command, the class got to work.
In his previous life, Sean had always feared rats—he felt uncomfortable around them to the point of revulsion. Even in this life, after mastering magic, that deep-seated aversion lingered.
So when Professor McGonagall gave the order, Sean didn't hesitate. With a quick flick of his wand, he aimed at the mouse in front of him. The creature squeaked once before it twisted into a vortex of silver light—then reformed as a stunning silver wine jug. The surface gleamed with intricate embossed patterns, and several dark green gemstones were embedded around the neck and base.
Sean had completed the transformation before most students had even drawn their wands.
Professor McGonagall noticed immediately and walked over to inspect his work. She examined the jug closely—perfect form, flawless detail. The only thing she personally disapproved of was the Slytherin-inspired color palette. Had it been gold with ruby-red accents, she might have liked it more. But even she had to admit…
"A very…" She paused, then relented. "A perfect transformation."
It would be even better if it were a golden jug with red gems, she thought silently.
As she looked at Sean, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. His level of Transfiguration had clearly surpassed not only his year-mates, but even some seventh-year students—and a few recent graduates, at that. The standard curriculum could no longer challenge him.
Was she really going to let a student this talented spend another year doing beginner-level Transfiguration?
While Professor McGonagall was still lost in thought, Sean suddenly spoke.
"Professor, I've had some new insights into Transfiguration recently, and I'd like to show you."
Startled for a moment, McGonagall quickly composed herself and nodded. "Of course, Sean. Please, show me."
With her permission, Sean waved his wand. The silver wine jug he had just transfigured lifted into the air, hovered briefly, and then landed gracefully on the ground beside him.
It began to spin.
Before the class's eyes, the wine jug morphed into a man-sized silver box, every surface engraved with delicate filigree and inlaid with dark green gemstones. It was elegant, ornate—and perfectly transfigured.
Professor McGonagall's eyes lit up. That level of control… That fluidity… Sean had clearly entered the third stage of Transfiguration. She hadn't expected it—she had underestimated him.
Just as she opened her mouth to speak, she noticed something: the transformation wasn't finished.
The silver box began to expand again. In seconds, it had reformed into a tall, gleaming wardrobe, carved with the same silver patterns and sparkling emeralds. The artistry was impeccable.
McGonagall stayed silent, watching closely.
Then, in one final flourish, the wardrobe rippled and shifted again. Its silver surface flowed like water and rose upward. In moments, it had become a towering silver tree, its thick trunk rooted in the classroom floor, branches stretching to the ceiling. From those branches sprouted shimmering green gemstone leaves, refracting the classroom light into patterns across the walls and desks.
The entire room fell silent.
Stage Three. Without question.
Not only had Sean reached the third stage of Transfiguration—he had gone deep into it.
Taking a quiet breath, she composed herself once more and said with her usual controlled calm, "Sean, come to my office after class. We need to talk."
Then, turning toward the rest of the class, she gave a flick of her wand. The massive silver tree shimmered and collapsed in on itself, reshaping into the original mouse, now squeaking quietly on the desk.
"You all may continue practicing. I'll return to check your progress shortly."
Without waiting for questions or comments, Professor McGonagall turned and swept out of the room, walking quickly—perhaps even urgently—toward the headmaster's office.
"Cockroach Cluster!"
The password was correct. The entrance to the headmaster's office opened, and Professor McGonagall stepped inside, walking straight into the room where Dumbledore was already waiting.
"Minerva, it's supposed to be Transfiguration class right now. What brings you here in the middle of a lesson?"
Although Dumbledore gestured for her to sit, Professor McGonagall remained standing and got straight to the point.
"Dumbledore, it's about a student—Sean. I believe you know him."
The moment Dumbledore heard Sean's name, his expression grew serious, though his tone remained as gentle as ever.
"What happened, Minerva? From the look on your face, I assume it's something good?"
Professor McGonagall gave a rare, measured nod.
"Yes, it is indeed good news. Just now in class, Sean demonstrated Transfiguration at the third stage—and not just the threshold of it. He's already entered a very advanced state. At this level, the standard curriculum is no longer of any use to him. I want to apply for a course exemption for him. For a student like Sean, skipping class won't hinder his progress. He only needs to sit for the exam when the time comes."
Dumbledore had once been the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts before Professor McGonagall. He naturally understood what it meant for a second-year student to reach the third stage of Transfiguration.
Even Dumbledore himself hadn't mastered the third stage until his third year. Tom Riddle hadn't entered that stage until his fifth.
Now, Sean—just a second-year—had not only stepped into the third stage, but had gone deep into it.
By all accounts, Dumbledore should have been pleased. Yet Professor McGonagall didn't see even a trace of joy on his face.
Could it be... Dumbledore was jealous of Sean's talent?
No. Even if Hogwarts were reduced to rubble, Dumbledore would never feel envy toward a student's brilliance. That wasn't his nature.
Then why?
At that moment, Professor McGonagall felt genuinely puzzled.
But Dumbledore didn't offer any explanation for his silence—nor did he seem inclined to share whatever thoughts weighed on him.
"Minerva," he said at last, gently, "let's go with your suggestion. I approve your application. This will give a gifted student like Sean more time to explore what truly challenges him—rather than waste effort on tasks that no longer benefit him."
"Understood. If there's nothing else, I'll return to class. There are still many children waiting for me."
Dumbledore gave a quiet nod, and Professor McGonagall took her leave, exiting the headmaster's office.
As soon as the door closed behind her, Dumbledore raised a hand—making a subtle gesture to silence the portraits lining the walls before any could speak.
He then waved his wand gently. A silvery mist began to form in the air before him.
To the glowing mist, Dumbledore said calmly, "Severus, please come to my office."
The moment the words left his lips, he waved again, and the message soared out the window—silvery and swift—on its way to Snape.