Chapter 30: Casual Mastery
The staff room smelled of cold tea and the persistent dampness of a Scottish castle. Minerva McGonagall frowned, not at the aroma, but at a first-year student's essay on the transfiguration of a mouse. The parchment was stained with jam. She tried to take a sip of her own tea, but the conversation across the room made it impossible.
"...and then, Minerva, I swear to you!", squeaked Filius Flitwick, perched on his usual stack of books. "The Hunter boy was bored because my second-year Arithmancy class was too slow, so he deduced Helstrom's Theory of Conceptual Resonance in the margin of his notebook! Like a simple doodle!".
"Arrogance. It is nothing more than arrogance", hissed Severus Snape from his dark corner, without looking up from his own corrections.
"It is genius, Severus, genius!", replied Filius, his small face glowing with pride.
Minerva sighed, putting down her red quill. That was the problem. Timothy Hunter.
The agreement Albus had reached with the boy, essentially allowing him a self-taught curriculum as long as he kept up appearances, had worried her deeply. She had feared it would create a lazy student, a prodigy who would rest on his laurels.
Instead, it had created an enigma.
The boy was a model student now, at least on paper. He was punctual. He handed in all assignments. His grades were impeccable. But his skill... his skill had become positively unsettling. He was no longer the "Ghost of the Tower", the pale and distracted boy who seemed about to collapse from his own obsession. That boy had disappeared during the summer. The one who had returned was quiet, focused, and possessed a calm that did not belong to a sixteen-year-old boy.
It was something much more bewildering. It was as if a master craftsman had stepped into the body of a student and was patiently pretending to be interested in learning how to sand wood.
That same evening, during dinner, Minerva watched the Great Hall from the head table. Her eyes, out of pure habit, scanned for anomalies. She saw Mr. Finnigan about to attempt an unauthorized charm on his goblet of pumpkin juice, and Miss Patil and Miss Brown gossiping instead of eating.
And then, her gaze settled on the Gryffindor table.
It wasn't the usual chaos of Weasley and Potter that caught her attention, although they were certainly making noise. It was the presence of a single patch of blue and bronze amidst the sea of red and gold.
Timothy Hunter was sitting there. Not with his Ravenclaw peers, but quietly dining between Harry Potter and the Weasley twins. Minerva watched, her tea cooling in her hand. She saw Ron Weasley gesturing wildly, probably about Quidditch, and she saw Harry laughing. And Hunter... he simply ate, listening with a calm that was completely foreign to the chaotic energy of that table. He would nod, say something quietly that made Ron laugh, and then return to his shepherd's pie.
It was exactly what Dumbledore had wished for. The boy was socializing. He was "living a little". And yet, it made Minerva's stomach turn.
It was a performance. She could see it. Hunter's calm was not that of a relaxed friend. It was the detachment of a scholar. His eyes, as he nodded to Harry, were not fixed on his friend; they were analyzing the enchanted ceiling, or perhaps, calculating the trajectory of a passing owl. He was following Albus's advice to the letter, but he was doing it with the same cold, analytical logic with which he approached his essays. He was simulating being a teenager to comply with the parameters of his agreement.
Minerva felt a shiver. It was like watching a dragon meticulously pretending to be a house cat so it would be left alone. It was more unsettling than his previous isolation.
The following Tuesday was the second-year Transfiguration class, shared between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Minerva McGonagall valued these sessions; the raw bravery of her lions often benefited from the analytical precision of the ravens.
The day's task was a standard but complicated exercise: the transfiguration of a beetle into a button.
"Transfiguration is one of the most complex magical arts", she began, her voice cutting through the murmur of the classroom. "It is not waving your wand and hoping for the best, Mr. Finnigan. It requires intention, precise visualization, and a firm will. Observe the beetle. Feel its essence... and then, impose the new form".
The classroom filled with the sound of failed pops!, the smell of singed chitin, and the occasional squeal as a half-transformed beetle fled across a desk.
Minerva walked through the aisles, correcting with precision. "Miss Granger, excellent work, a perfect mother-of-pearl button. Five points to Gryffindor". "Mr. Weasley, stop crushing your specimen. Brute force does not replace intention".
Then, she reached Timothy Hunter's desk.
Her unease returned with force. The boy wasn't practicing. He wasn't failing. He wasn't even trying. He was leaning back in his chair, chin resting on a hand, staring out the window with an expression of absolute and cosmic boredom. His beetle scurried quietly in a small circle on his desk, completely intact.
Dumbledore's agreement was one thing, but flagrant insolence was another.
"Mr. Hunter", said Minerva, her voice as sharp as a transfigured needle. The classroom went silent. "Perhaps you would like to join us. Transfiguration requires concentration, not daydreaming about the landscape".
Timothy didn't even seem to startle. He turned slowly, his clear, analytical eyes meeting hers, void of any fear or shame.
"Oh. I already finished, Professor", he said calmly.
Minerva's irritation rose. "Finished? Mr. Hunter, your beetle is..."
She stopped. The beetle was still scurrying. But next to it, where there had been nothing a second before, rested an object. Minerva leaned in. It wasn't a button.
It was a cameo. An intricate oval of polished silver, with a Ravenclaw eagle embossed in relief with detail she could barely believe. There were no spell burn marks. There were no rough edges. It was... perfect. She stared at the object, her Transfiguration Mistress mind processing the information. This wasn't a second-year spell. This was NEWT-level magic. And, she realized with a shiver that ran down her spine, she hadn't seen him move his wand. She hadn't heard an incantation. He had done it silently, wandlessly, and what was worse, he had done it while he was bored.
"Hunter, stay behind", ordered Minerva. Her voice was quiet, but cutting, and it silenced the students who were starting to pack their things. The others left the classroom, casting curious glances at Timothy, who remained seated, impassive.
When the door closed, Minerva approached his desk and, with the tip of her wand, touched the silver cameo. It was perfect. There wasn't a single flaw.
"The task, Mr. Hunter", she said, her voice tense from the control she was exerting, "was a button".
Timothy looked up from the window, his clear, analytical eyes meeting hers. There was no fear, nor shame. Only a slight confusion, as if she were asking him something absurdly obvious.
"I know, Professor", he replied calmly. "But a cameo is conceptually the same. It is a chitinous shell transmuted into a metallic silicate. I just changed the shape parameters".
Minerva felt her lip tremble. "Conceptual...? Mr. Hunter, this is NEWT-level magic, performed without a wand and without words, in a second-year exercise. It is not 'changing the parameters'! It is monumental arrogance!".
He looked at her, and for the first time, seemed genuinely bewildered by her anger. "It was not my intention to be arrogant, Professor", he said, as if explaining something to a child. "It simply seemed more efficient".
Minerva was left speechless.
Efficient. She realized, with a shiver, that he wasn't being insolent. He was telling the truth. For him, the task of making a button was so trivial, so beneath his level, that he decided to make it interesting. His mastery of the subject was absolute.
She looked at him, and she no longer saw a student. She saw a colleague, a master, trapped in the body of a child and forced to attend preschool. She realized she had nothing to teach him. She realized she couldn't control him.
And that, more than any teenage arrogance, terrified her deeply.
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Hello everyone.
Just stopping by to let you know that if you want to read ahead, the story is already at chapter 40+ on my Patreon.
Thanks for reading!
Mike.
@Patreon/iLikeeMikee