The next week passed in a haze of tension Harry couldn't quite name.
The castle had gone quiet again — no more whispers, no vibrations in the walls — but that didn't comfort him.
It was the kind of quiet that meant something was listening.
And he knew exactly what it was.
The basilisk wasn't awake yet — not fully — but it was aware.
And that awareness had been triggered by him.
He caught himself staring at the floorboards during lessons, half expecting to feel that faint, crawling hum of serpentine thought in the stone.
Nothing.
Not yet.
But he could sense the magic shifting — like the castle itself was holding its breath.
⸻
It was during Transfiguration that McGonagall noticed it.
Harry had been trying to turn a beetle into a button — easy work for him.
But instead of neat, polished brass, the beetle became living metal, its tiny legs still twitching.
The class gasped. Hermione's hand flew to her mouth.
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall said sharply, "what exactly did you do?"
Harry blinked. "I… don't know. It just—worked too well?"
Her eyes narrowed, but there was something thoughtful behind the strictness.
"Stay after class."
⸻
The classroom emptied quickly — whispering, curious glances trailing behind.
When the door shut, McGonagall gestured to the small desk near hers.
"Sit."
Harry obeyed.
For a moment, she said nothing. She just studied him — the faint glimmer of restless magic still lingering in the air around him.
Then, quietly:
"You've been experimenting."
Harry froze. "How—"
"Minerva McGonagall did not become Deputy Headmistress by not noticing magical disturbances," she said dryly. "Half the upper corridors have been humming all week."
Harry hesitated. "I didn't mean to. It just—happens."
Her expression softened, slightly.
"I don't doubt that. But magic that happens on its own can be dangerous — even for those it belongs to."
Harry nodded. "I know. That's why I've been trying to understand it."
"Good," she said. "Then let's make that effort official."
He blinked. "What?"
"I am going to give you extra lessons, Mr. Potter. Quietly. After hours."
She folded her arms. "If you're going to break the laws of magical stability, you will at least learn how to reassemble them afterward."
Harry couldn't help grinning. "You mean detention with homework."
Her lips twitched. "Something like that."
⸻
The first lesson was the next evening, in her classroom.
No other students.
Just two candles, one desk, and a small glass bowl filled with feathers.
McGonagall gestured to it.
"Transfiguration," she said, "is not about control. It's about intention. You cannot change something unless you understand what it already is."
She pointed her wand.
The feather shimmered, shifted — became a silver coin, then a quill, then a feather again.
"Most students only learn the surface," she said. "They impose will without comprehension. You, on the other hand, seem to impose comprehension without control."
Harry smirked faintly. "That sounds about right."
"Then tonight, we focus on balance."
She motioned for him to try.
Harry took a feather, breathed once, and focused.
He remembered the beat — the rhythm beneath all things. Magic wasn't just energy; it was music. He didn't need to command it. He just needed to listen.
The feather rippled — glowing faintly — and began to reshape.
For a moment, it worked perfectly. The edges sharpened, curling into the outline of a bronze leaf.
Then the glow intensified — too fast, too much.
The feather burst into sparks.
Harry yelped, flinging his hand back.
McGonagall waved her wand; the embers vanished.
"Well," she said, calm as ever. "Better than last week's reports suggested. At least this time, you didn't set your robes on fire."
Harry coughed, trying not to smile. "Progress, then?"
Her expression softened, just a touch.
"Progress," she agreed. "But you must learn restraint. You channel magic like a Seeker dives — with precision, but no brakes."
Harry looked down at the burnt feather.
"How do I learn that?"
"Discipline," she said simply. "And patience."
He grimaced. "Not my best qualities."
"I've noticed," she said dryly. "All the more reason to start practicing them."
She handed him another feather.
"Again. And slower."
⸻
They practiced for hours.
McGonagall's method wasn't about repetition — it was about reflection.
She made him pause after every failure, describe what he felt, not what he saw.
"Magic is language," she said quietly as he worked. "Every spell, every transformation is a conversation between will and world. If you shout, it shouts back. If you listen, it answers."
By the third attempt, Harry managed it — the feather reshaped itself into a delicate copper leaf, shimmering faintly but steady.
He grinned. "Got it."
McGonagall studied him for a moment. "Do you know why that one worked?"
"I stopped trying," he said.
Her smile was small, but real. "Then you're starting to learn."
⸻
After she dismissed him, Harry lingered in the empty corridor outside her classroom.
The castle felt alive again — that faint vibration underfoot, deep and rhythmic.
He closed his eyes.
Listened.
It wasn't a hiss this time.
It was… heartbeat.
The castle's pulse, matching his own.
He could almost feel the basilisk's presence far below — dormant, ancient, coiled within the foundations.
But it didn't feel hostile. Not yet.
He whispered, in Parseltongue, "Sleep. I'll come for you — but not as an enemy."
The air trembled faintly, then stilled.
⸻
That night, he wrote by candlelight, fingers stained with ash and ink.
Lessons of Fire and Feather
Transfiguration is control through understanding.
McGonagall says patience is magic's first form of discipline.
She's right — and I'm awful at it.
The castle listens to me.
The basilisk dreams.
And I can feel that my magic isn't growing stronger — it's growing deeper.
Maybe that's what becoming powerful really means:
Not knowing more spells.
Just understanding what magic is trying to say.
He paused, tapped the quill against the desk, then added one last line:
And when I understand it fully…
I'll rewrite it.
He shut the book and leaned back, listening to the faint heartbeat in the walls.
It wasn't threatening.
It was welcoming.
Like the castle itself was proud of him.
⸻
End of Chapter 18 – "Lessons of Fire and Feather."