"Right then," John said, stubbing out his morning cigarette as he surveyed the transformed living room. "This is either going to be brilliant or a complete disaster."
Harry looked up from where he was carefully arranging chairs in a triangle, his seven-year-old face serious with concentration. "Why would it be a disaster?"
"Because," John said, lighting another cigarette, "you've got three very different teachers with three very different ideas about how magic should work. That's either going to give you the best magical education in Britain, or it's going to scramble your brains."
The flat had been reorganized for Harry's first formal lesson with Professor Dumbledore. John had cleared away most of his occult paraphernalia, though he'd left a few protective wards discretely active. Tim Hunter sat cross-legged on the floor, weaving absent patterns of light between his fingers while they waited.
"I think it'll be brilliant," Harry said confidently. "You taught me to survive, Tim teaches me to create, and Professor Dumbledore will teach me to... to be proper."
"Proper?" Tim asked with amusement, letting his light constructs dissolve.
"You know. Like a real wizard. With wands and spells that have actual names instead of just making things happen because I want them to."
John and Tim exchanged a look. Harry's magical education so far had been decidedly unconventional—heavy on practical application and light on theory. Adding Dumbledore's more traditional approach would either balance things out or create confusion.
The knock on the door came precisely at two o'clock. Dumbledore's punctuality was as reliable as his habit of arriving with interesting magical objects.
"Good afternoon," Dumbledore said warmly as John let him in. Today he was carrying what appeared to be a small wooden box and wearing robes of deep blue that somehow managed to look both formal and comfortable.
"Professor," Harry said politely, though his eyes were immediately drawn to the box. "What's that?"
"Patience, my dear boy," Dumbledore said with a twinkle in his eye. "First, let us discuss what we hope to accomplish today."
He settled into the chair Harry had prepared for him, looking around the flat with the same benign interest he'd shown before. His gaze lingered for a moment on Tim, whose magical signature was impossible to ignore.
"Mr. Hunter," Dumbledore said with genuine warmth. "A pleasure to meet you properly. Your reputation precedes you."
"Professor," Tim replied respectfully. "John's told me about your arrangement. I'm grateful you're helping with Harry's education."
"As am I grateful for your assistance," Dumbledore said. "It takes a village, as they say, to raise a child of exceptional gifts."
Harry looked between them curiously. "You know each other?"
"By reputation," Dumbledore said. "Tim Hunter is rather famous in certain circles as one of the most naturally gifted young magicians of our time."
"Really?" Harry asked, looking at Tim with new interest.
"Don't let it go to your head," John said dryly. "Tim's still the same stubborn teenager who used to set my curtains on fire during lessons."
"That was twice," Tim protested. "And the second time was your fault for startling me."
"Right then," Dumbledore said, clearly enjoying the family dynamic. "Shall we begin? Harry, I thought we might start with something fundamental—Transfiguration. The art of changing one thing into another."
He opened the wooden box to reveal what appeared to be a collection of ordinary objects—a matchstick, a button, a small stone, and curiously, what looked like a dead mouse.
"Transfiguration," Dumbledore continued, "requires three things: clear visualization, precise intent, and absolute confidence in your ability to impose your will upon reality."
"Sounds like every magic I've learned so far," Harry observed.
"Indeed. But Transfiguration has specific rules, specific forms that must be followed. It is magic with structure, with discipline." Dumbledore picked up the matchstick. "For instance, to turn this matchstick into a needle, one must understand both what a matchstick is and what a needle is, then bridge that gap with magic."
He raised what Harry now realized was a wand—the first one he'd seen up close—and with a precise flick, the matchstick became a gleaming silver needle.
"That's brilliant," Harry breathed. "Can I try?"
"Not quite yet," Dumbledore said gently. "First, theory. Then practice. It is the traditional way, and tradition exists for good reason."
John snorted. "Traditional way nearly got the kid killed by an Obscurus. Sometimes you need to work with what actually works."
"Which is why," Dumbledore said diplomatically, "Harry is fortunate to have multiple perspectives. Mr. Constantine's practical approach has clearly served Harry well. But formal structure can provide a framework upon which to build more advanced techniques."
For the next hour, Dumbledore walked Harry through the theoretical foundations of Transfiguration. The five exceptions to Gamp's Law. The importance of understanding molecular structure. The difference between transformation and conjuration.
Harry listened with the intense focus he brought to all his studies, but John could see him getting restless. The kid learned by doing, not by sitting still and listening to theory.
"Professor," Harry said finally, "this is all very interesting, but when do I get to actually try it?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Right now, actually. But first, let me see your current magical technique. Mr. Constantine, would you mind if Harry demonstrated some of what you've taught him?"
John shrugged. "Go ahead, kid. Show the Professor what you can do."
Harry held out his hand and began weaving light, creating the small butterfly that had become his signature demonstration. But instead of letting it dissolve, he began to modify it—changing its color, its size, its pattern.
"Fascinating," Dumbledore murmured. "Completely unstructured, but remarkably controlled. You're essentially performing multiple transfigurations simultaneously, but through pure will rather than formal technique."
"Is that bad?" Harry asked, his butterfly now cycling through every color of the rainbow.
"Not bad at all. But observe what happens when we add structure to your natural ability." Dumbledore picked up his wand again. "Tim, would you assist me?"
Tim nodded and stood, moving to Harry's left side while Dumbledore positioned himself on the right.
"Now Harry," Dumbledore said, "I want you to create your butterfly again. But this time, Tim and I will provide... guidance."
Harry formed the butterfly again, but this time he could feel both Tim's power and Dumbledore's joining with his own. It wasn't intrusive—more like having two extra sets of hands helping him shape the magic.
The butterfly that emerged was unlike anything Harry had created before. It was perfectly formed, anatomically correct, and when it moved, it moved like a real butterfly rather than a magical construct pretending to be one.
"Bloody hell," John muttered.
"Language," Harry said automatically, but he was staring at his creation in wonder. "How did you do that?"
"We didn't do anything," Tim said. "We just helped you focus your power more precisely. You did all the actual work."
"This is the value of formal training," Dumbledore explained. "Not to replace your natural gifts, but to refine them. To give you tools for precision that raw talent alone cannot provide."
Harry let the butterfly dissolve and looked between his three teachers. "Can we try the matchstick now?"
"I think you're ready," Dumbledore said, handing Harry a wand—not his own, but a spare he'd brought for the lesson. "Remember, clear visualization, precise intent, absolute confidence."
Harry took the wand carefully. It felt strange in his hand—not wrong, exactly, but unnecessary. Like trying to write with a pen when your fingers already worked perfectly well.
"Visualize the needle," Dumbledore instructed. "See it clearly in your mind. Now, speak the incantation: 'Transfiguro Acus.'"
"Transfiguro Acus," Harry repeated, pointing the wand at the matchstick.
Nothing happened.
Harry frowned. "That's not right. I can feel the magic, but it's not... flowing properly."
"Try without the wand," John suggested.
"But traditional Transfiguration requires—" Dumbledore began.
"Bollocks to tradition," John interrupted. "Kid's magic doesn't work traditionally. Let him do it his way."
Harry set the wand aside and held his hand over the matchstick. He visualized the needle, spoke the incantation, and channeled his intent through his fingers rather than through wood and unicorn hair.
The matchstick became a needle so perfect it looked like it had been machine-made.
"Remarkable," Dumbledore said quietly. "You performed a seventh-year level transfiguration without a wand, on your first attempt."
"Was I not supposed to?" Harry asked, worried he'd done something wrong.
"You were supposed to fail," Tim said with a grin. "Most people need weeks of practice before they can manage even basic transfiguration. You just did it like it was breathing."
"Because it is, for him," John said, studying Harry's face. "Kid doesn't separate magic from himself. He doesn't use magic—he is magic."
"Which presents both opportunities and challenges," Dumbledore observed. "Harry, try the transfiguration again, but this time with the wand."
Harry picked up the wand reluctantly. This time, instead of trying to force his magic through it, he tried to include it as part of himself. The result was immediate—the needle became a matchstick so quickly it was barely visible.
"Better?" Harry asked.
"Much better. You're learning to adapt your natural abilities to work with traditional tools. That skill will serve you well in the broader magical world."
For the next two hours, they worked through increasingly complex exercises. Harry learned to transfigure buttons into beetles (which promptly scuttled around the flat until John banished them), stones into glass marbles, and in one memorable attempt, temporarily turned one of John's empty beer bottles into what appeared to be a small dragon.
"Right," John said, as the dragon-bottle tried to set fire to his case notes. "Maybe we should stick to inanimate objects for now."
"Agreed," Dumbledore said, easily reversing Harry's transfiguration. "Though I must say, the magical complexity of that attempt was... impressive."
Throughout the lesson, Tim provided a bridge between John's practical approach and Dumbledore's formal instruction. When Harry struggled with a concept, Tim would demonstrate it using his own light-weaving techniques, showing how the same principles applied across different magical styles.
"You see," Tim explained as he helped Harry understand the difference between alteration and conjuration, "when you create light, you're pulling energy from yourself and giving it form. When you transfigure something, you're convincing existing matter to become something else. Same underlying principle, different application."
"Like the difference between building something new and renovating something old?" Harry asked.
"Exactly."
As the lesson wound down, Harry sat back in his chair, looking thoughtfully between his three teachers.
"I think I understand now," he said slowly. "You each teach me different pieces of the same thing."
"How so?" Dumbledore asked.
"John teaches me to survive—how to use magic when everything's going wrong and I need it to work right now. Tim teaches me to create—how to make magic beautiful and how to push the boundaries of what's possible. And you teach me to be precise—how to make my magic fit into the world that already exists."
"That's... actually quite insightful," Dumbledore said. "Most adult wizards never understand that magic has multiple aspects that must all be mastered."
"Because most adult wizards learn only one way," John pointed out. "Either formal education that's all theory and no practical application, or street magic that works but isn't sustainable long-term."
"Harry's getting the best of all worlds," Tim added. "Though it means he's also getting more complicated than most kids his age."
"I don't mind complicated," Harry said. "Complicated is interesting."
As they cleaned up the lesson materials, Harry felt something stir in his scar—the Horcrux fragment responding to the intensive magical activity. But instead of the usual anger or hunger, it felt... confused. Like it couldn't understand why Harry's magic was becoming more controlled rather than more chaotic.
"John?" Harry said quietly, touching his scar.
"Yeah?"
"The thing in my head doesn't like the structured magic. It keeps trying to make the spells go wrong."
John and Dumbledore exchanged concerned looks.
"Did you feel it actively interfering?" Dumbledore asked.
"A little. Like... like it wanted the transfigurations to be darker. To hurt things instead of just changing them."
"We'll need to monitor that," Dumbledore said seriously. "The fragment may become more active as your magical education advances."
"But I can handle it," Harry said with the confidence of someone who'd been managing the fragment for over a year. "It's just angry that I'm getting better at controlling my magic instead of letting it control me."
"Good lad," John said, ruffling Harry's hair. "That's exactly the right attitude."
After Dumbledore left with promises to return the following week, the three remaining sat in comfortable silence for a while.
"So," John said finally, "how was your first formal magic lesson?"
"Brilliant," Harry said immediately. "But also weird. The wand feels wrong, like it's getting in the way instead of helping."
"That's normal," Tim said. "Most wizards learn to use wands from childhood, so they never develop the connection to magic you have. For you, the wand is unnecessary."
"But useful," Harry added thoughtfully. "Because other people expect it. And because it makes the magic more... predictable."
"Political tool as much as magical tool," John agreed. "In the wizarding world, not using a wand marks you as either very powerful or very dangerous. Sometimes both."
"Which am I?" Harry asked.
John and Tim looked at each other, then at Harry—small, seven years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a butterfly made of pure light dancing around his head.
"Both, kid," John said finally. "Definitely both."
As evening settled over London, Harry practiced his new transfiguration skills while Tim and John discussed lesson plans for the coming weeks. Outside, the city hummed with its usual mix of mundane and magical activity, but inside the flat, something unprecedented was taking shape: a magical education that combined the best of tradition, innovation, and hard-won survival skills.
It was, all three teachers agreed, either going to create the most well-rounded young wizard in Britain, or drive them all completely mad.
Probably both.