It wasn't a simple pattern carved onto it with magic.
She could clearly feel that the exquisite rose vines, as fine as strands of hair, were formed as one with the entire needle!
This meant that during that utterly astonishing transformation, which had taken less than a second, the boy hadn't merely completed a "matter transmutation" from wood to metal. He had even... re-encoded and reconstructed the material at the atomic level, directly "printing" those outrageously complex three-dimensional structures as he reshaped it!
What... what was this?!
This wasn't "Transfiguration"!
"Transfiguration" was turning A into B, changing the "external form" and "surface properties" of matter.
But what this boy before her had done was completely break A down into the most primordial "nothing," then use that "nothing" to create whatever perfect "C" he wanted, as he pleased!
This was already beyond the realm of "talent."
Talent was what Hermione had: she could "imitate" and "copy" the magic her teachers taught her faster and more accurately than anyone else.
But what the boy before her had demonstrated was something far more terrifying and fundamental, a... power that transcended every magical technique.
It was an understanding and command of "material form" at its most fundamental, reaching straight to its very core.
He seemed to know by nature what "wood" was, what "metal" was, what "form" was, and what "laws" were.
So he didn't need spells, a wand, or those cumbersome "rituals" meant to assist ordinary people.
All he needed was a... thought.
A thought that said, "I need a needle, a perfect needle."
And then the world would present him with the result, just as he wished.
"This... is impossible..." Professor McGonagall's lips moved soundlessly. For the first time, her clever, experienced eyes held the profound bewilderment and awe of someone facing a "miracle," almost as though she had become superstitious.
Decades of teaching experience, decades spent studying the rigorous science of Transfiguration—everything she had built, her unshakable system of knowledge and worldview about magic, was now tottering under the impact of that small silver needle with its rose carvings.
She slowly raised her head, her eyes full of shock turning toward the boy who had caused all this, yet had remained calm from beginning to end.
The boy looked back at her with an equally calm, even somewhat innocent expression, as if to ask, "What's the big deal?"
"Professor?" he said, sounding just the right amount of puzzled. "Is there something wrong with the needle? Is the carving... too ugly? If you'd like, I can change it to another design, like... a lion?"
"Pfft—"
In the extreme silence, someone couldn't hold back and let out a strange burst of air, somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
Professor McGonagall's face instantly flushed red.
Her mind buzzed, going completely blank.
What could she say? What was there to say?
Criticize him?
What he had made was a hundred times more perfect than the example she, the professor, had demonstrated!
Praise him?
What words could she use? "Mr. Lin, you're a genius"?
No, that would practically insult the miraculous ability he had just displayed!
She was utterly at a loss for words.
At last, she drew a deep breath, forcing down the turmoil of shock within her. In a voice that sounded dry and hoarse even to her, she struggled to speak to Lin Yuan:
"...N-no... there's nothing wrong with it, Mr. Lin. It's... perfect."
She paused, as though it took all her strength to continue:
"Gryffindor... gets... fifty points."
Boom—!!!
If the twenty points Professor Flitwick had awarded had shocked the class, then these "fifty points" from Professor McGonagall, the strictest and most miserly giver of points in the entire school, had the effect of a bomb exploding in the classroom.
Everyone went crazy.
The Gryffindor students burst into uncontrollable cheers, then clamped down on them when Professor McGonagall shot them a sharp look, their faces turning red from holding it in.
As for Lin Yuan, the person who had just earned fifty points, he merely gave Professor McGonagall a polite little nod.
"Thank you, Professor."
He looked so calm and unruffled, as if he hadn't just received an unprecedented bounty of points worthy of going down in Hogwarts history, but had merely been greeted with a casual, "Nice weather today."
The Transfiguration lesson finally came to an end in an atmosphere a hundred times stranger than the one in Charms.
Professor McGonagall didn't even look at any of the other students' botched "creations" again.
She simply waved her hand and dismissed the class early.
Then, with an exceedingly complicated look—full of curiosity, shock, and a trace of apprehension—she watched Lin Yuan and said the same thing Professor Flitwick had:
"Mr. Lin, please stay behind."
The end-of-class bell rang like a pardon.
The first-year Gryffindors and Ravenclaws stole glances at Lin Yuan, still sitting in his seat with a calm expression, their eyes a mixture of awe, curiosity, and a little fear. Then they left the classroom, where the atmosphere had grown oppressively tense.
Ron poked his head around the doorway, silently mouthing to Harry and Hermione, "He's done for! Professor McGonagall's going to turn him into a slug herself!"
Harry watched Lin Yuan's back with deep concern, while Hermione's proud, inquisitive mind was now completely stuffed with a tangled ball of questions called "Why?" and "How is that possible?"
More than anyone else, she wanted to stay and listen in on this interrogation, which was sure to go down in history.
But Professor McGonagall's sharp gaze, cold enough to freeze the air, swept over her. Hermione immediately turned into a startled rabbit, grabbed the still-pretending-to-be-Ron and the worried-looking Harry, and hurried off until they vanished at the end of the corridor.
The heavy oak door slowly swung shut by itself behind them.
The spacious Transfiguration classroom was left with only Professor McGonagall and Lin Yuan.
And the silver needle with its rose carvings, lying quietly on the lectern as if mocking the entire magical world.
An interrogation about the very nature of magic was about to begin—a confrontation across an unbridgeable gulf in understanding, and one that was therefore doomed to go nowhere.
"Click."
The small sound seemed to separate two worlds.
The spacious, brightly lit Transfiguration classroom now held only two people.
Minerva McGonagall stood before the lectern, her expression utterly stern.
Lin Yuan sat behind a desk, relaxed and at ease.
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