Chapter 38: Dumbledore: I'm Watching You
"As you can see," Professor McGonagall said, "when one understands a substance's internal structural rules deeply enough, when one's magical power is strong enough, and when the will is clear enough, this sort of transformation becomes possible."
She placed her wand on the desk and looked at Regulus with a measured seriousness.
"But as you observed, it is far more difficult than ordinary Transfiguration. You must not only envision the target form. You must perceive and reconstruct its stable internal structure, converting loose layered connections into a sturdy three dimensional framework."
Regulus chose his moment carefully.
"Professor," he asked, "what about the Philosopher's Stone?"
McGonagall's gaze sharpened.
"The Philosopher's Stone is the pinnacle of Alchemy," she said. "It goes beyond ordinary Transfiguration. It touches creation and eternity."
She spoke with a scholar's precision, as if carving the idea into place.
"Gold produced by ordinary Transfiguration often carries a strong imprint of the caster's magic. It can be unstable. It may revert with time, or under powerful magical interference, or retain a kind of false essence."
Her mouth tightened slightly.
"Gold transmuted by the Philosopher's Stone is said to possess truly eternal material properties. The difference may lie in whether the perfect internal structural rules of gold have been truly created, or fixed beyond decay."
The discussion settled into Regulus like a key turning in a lock.
McGonagall's approach leaned toward intuitive magic and the discipline of will. His own thinking carried the habits of modern structure and analysis. Where they met, his understanding of Transfiguration abruptly clarified, as if a fog had thinned.
"Your talent, and the depth of your thinking, are impressive, Mr. Black," McGonagall said.
Her tone softened, not quite warmth, but something close to approval.
She stood, crossed to an old bookshelf, and drew out a thick notebook that looked decades old.
Its cover was deep blue dragon hide, the sort of thing one did not own unless it mattered.
"These are insights I recorded in my youth," she said, handing it to him with a solemn care. "Conjectures, failures, lessons. Not spells or techniques. Thoughts on the nature of Transfiguration, and on perceiving the object you wish to transfigure with greater clarity."
She held his gaze.
"I believe it may help your current exploration."
Regulus took the notebook with both hands.
He could feel the faint residue of gentle magic along the cover, and something else too. The weight of long years. The kind of wisdom that did not come from books alone.
This was not a casual gift. It was an investment, and a warning, wrapped together.
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall," he said, and his gratitude was sincere.
"I hope it guides you in the right direction," McGonagall replied.
Her eyes were profound now, and the classroom sternness had shifted into something older, more cautious.
"Transfiguration is one of the most direct ways magic alters reality. A powerful will can reshape matter. But the will must be guided by wisdom and morality."
She paused, letting the words land.
"Never forget that we learn magic to understand the world, not merely to dominate it, or distort it."
"Yes, Professor," Regulus said. "I will not forget."
He thanked her again and left.
When the door closed, Professor McGonagall remained where she stood, staring at it as if the wood might offer answers.
The talent that child had shown was rare in all her years of teaching. Calm. Sharp. Creative. Restrained, at least on the surface, and unfailingly polite.
That was precisely why it unsettled her.
If such talent chose the wrong path, the harm would not be small.
"I can only hope he chooses well," she murmured, returning to her desk.
Yet for a long time she could not force her attention back onto the pile of essays.
In the end, she stood again and headed for the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor.
She spoke the password. The stone gargoyle hopped aside. The spiral staircase rotated upward, carrying her to the gleaming oak door.
She knocked.
"Come in, Minerva," said Dumbledore's gentle voice.
Professor McGonagall entered the circular office. It hummed with peculiar silver instruments. Portraits of former headmasters pretended to doze while listening with professional interest. Fawkes sat on his perch, preening in the warm light.
"Albus, I need to speak to you about Regulus Black," McGonagall said at once.
Dumbledore looked at her over his half moon spectacles, blue eyes bright with mild curiosity.
"Ah, young Mr. Black," he said. "Has he asked another Transfiguration question that leaves my Deputy Headmistress displeased with the limits of the curriculum?"
"It is not only a question," McGonagall said, and sat in the hard backed chair opposite his desk.
Her expression was serious.
"His talent is extraordinary. His understanding of Transfiguration far exceeds his age. It touches areas I do not often explore in depth, not with students. More importantly, his way of thinking is unusual. Structurally clear. Lofty in perspective."
She fixed Dumbledore with a look that demanded he take her meaning.
"This child is unusual, Albus."
She then recounted the discussion in detail. Graphite. Diamond. Internal structural rules. The difference between reshaping and rebuilding.
Dumbledore listened without interrupting, fingers lightly steepled.
"And," McGonagall continued, frowning, "I have noticed other things."
"He no longer asks those advanced questions in class. He behaves like an exemplary student focused on fundamentals."
Her voice tightened slightly.
"But I asked a house elf to keep watch. He often practises sophisticated magic alone in secluded parts of the castle, including wordless spells and extremely precise Transfiguration. That is far beyond what someone his age should manage. Some of it is stronger than what many adult wizards can perform."
She took a breath, then added the pieces that worried her most because they fit together too neatly.
"He has academic exchanges with Lily Evans in the library. He teaches her Muggle methods of essay writing. With his classmates he keeps a distance, but Avery Cuthbert has begun following him. Regulus responds with conditional acceptance and guidance, not simple exploitation."
Dumbledore nodded once.
"Yes, Minerva. I have noticed as well."
McGonagall's mouth thinned.
"Of course you have."
Dumbledore smiled faintly, and his gaze drifted, not outward, but across the office, as if acknowledging the portraits without naming them.
"This castle is full of eyes and ears," he said. "And I have paid particular attention to young Mr. Black."
His tone remained gentle, but it carried weight.
"From the day he was Sorted, the Sorting Hat shared something… interesting with me. It said he gazes at the stars with a vision that rises above worldly quarrels, yet he still chose Slytherin."
He paused, and when he spoke again, his words were measured, as if he were placing stones on a scale.
"He is not like his brother, Sirius. Sirius's rebellion is fire. Bright, direct, impossible to miss."
Dumbledore's eyes rested on McGonagall again.
"Regulus is calm on the surface, but beneath that calm may be complex thought and unfamiliar ideas. His thirst for knowledge is genuine. His pursuit of power is clear. And he seems to measure the world by standards of his own."
"That is exactly what worries me," McGonagall said at once. "He has talent, ideas, and the ability to hide and calculate. If he is drawn into those dark ideologies…"
"We cannot choose the path for our students, Minerva," Dumbledore said, voice soft, yet firm. "We can provide knowledge, set examples, and offer guidance and correction when it is needed."
He did not dismiss her concern. He shaped it into something manageable.
"As of now, Regulus Black has shown no behaviour that crosses the line. His friendship with Lily Evans is built on mutual respect. His handling of Avery Cuthbert looks more like restraint and guidance than indulgence. His exploration of Transfiguration, while deep, has not stepped into forbidden ground."
Dumbledore looked out the window at the sky, darkening beyond the castle.
"The shadow of Lord Voldemort is approaching," he said quietly. "Ancient families are making choices. The House of Black will not remain untouched."
His gaze stayed distant.
"Regulus is caught within it. Each decision he makes will shape him, and may shape others. We cannot see the future, but we can observe, and we can prepare."
McGonagall's voice lowered.
"Do you think he will be… different?"
Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Then he spoke slowly, as if even the portraits should hear it properly.
"The stars the Hat saw may be metaphor. Ambition, perhaps. Or a wider vision, a pursuit that does not fit neatly into our usual categories."
His eyes returned to her.
"His way of viewing magic is unusual. That can be danger. It can also be opportunity."
He folded his hands.
"Time will answer us, Minerva. Until then, we do our duty. We teach him. We watch him. And if necessary, we ensure he harms neither others nor himself."
The conversation ended.
McGonagall's worry did not vanish, but Dumbledore's steadiness gave it a boundary, something she could hold without being consumed by it.
At the very least, she was not the only one paying attention.
Dumbledore was watching that child.