Beyond Transfiguration, the Beginning of All Things

The next morning, Gavin drank a bowl of boat congee and ate a plate of beef rice noodle rolls, feeling thoroughly restored.

Chinese restaurants had still been scarce in London in 1991, and the food had only been so-so. With Mrs. Carlos watching him at home, he could not cook for himself, either. Only today had he finally eaten authentic Chinese food.

"Those House-elves are excellent cooks. I wonder if I could have one someday."

Gavin was impressed. They had recreated the taste of simple Chinese dishes from nothing but his recipes and descriptions. With skills like that, they could have been head chefs at any Muggle restaurant.

"What's that?"

A curious voice came from beside him.

Gavin looked up. Cho Chang stood beside the Hufflepuff table, her gaze fixed on the steaming plate of rice noodle rolls in front of him. The smell had clearly drawn her over. She was still holding her own thoroughly ordinary breakfast: toast, scrambled eggs, and a small bowl of dispiriting baked beans.

"Wow, rice noodle rolls!"

Cho's eyes lit up, her voice bright with the delight of seeing an old friend.

"You like them?"

"Of course." Cho set her tray down and leaned in for a closer look. "My family took me to Guangzhou when I was little. They were everywhere in the mornings. Someone would lift a steamer lid, and the whole street would fill with steam and the smell of rice. I thought I'd never get to eat them again in the United Kingdom."

She could not resist adding, "And these actually look pretty authentic."

That was high praise.

Gavin glanced at his breakfast. If the House-elves could understand her, they would probably be happier than if someone had given them five Galleons.

"What's that?"

Cedric stood behind Cho with his plate. He looked at the soft white rolls, then at the colorful bowl of congee, with the wary expression of someone assessing whether either might suddenly move and bite him.

"Rice noodle rolls," Cho answered.

"I know that's what they're called," Cedric said patiently. "My question is, why are they called that? Aren't intestines used for... that?"

Cho was at a loss.

Spoon in hand, Gavin calmly came to her rescue. "Sometimes food names aren't chosen to make British people comfortable on first hearing them."

Cedric stared at the rolls, his expression growing more complicated.

"So they have nothing to do with... intestines in that sense?"

"No."

"Nothing at all."

Cedric visibly relaxed.

"That's a relief. Honestly, I was starting to wonder whether Chinese cuisine was more adventurous than I'd thought."

Cho burst out laughing.

"Think of it as a thin rice pancake," she said, gesturing with her hands. "It's steamed, then rolled around beef, shrimp, or something else, and topped with sauce. They're common in Guangzhou."

"And what's in the bowl?"

"Boat congee," Gavin said, lifting a spoonful. "It's porridge."

Cedric studied the finely chopped toppings and the thick rice beneath them. He was silent for two seconds.

"You call that porridge?"

"Yes."

"I always thought porridge was supposed to be more... plain."

"British people pour beans over toast and eat it in all seriousness," Gavin said, taking a sip of congee. "Out of courtesy, I think we'd best not judge each other's breakfast tastes."

Cho's shoulders shook as she tried not to laugh.

Cedric laughed too, accepting the point with good grace.

"All right, fair enough. It does smell delicious, though."

The aroma drifted slowly from the bowl and plate. Sauce gave the rice noodle rolls a slight sheen; fish slices, peanuts, and chopped fried dough sticks filled the steaming congee. Its scent mingled with the Great Hall's usual smell of toast, strikingly out of place yet remarkably persistent.

Several nearby Hufflepuffs had begun glancing over.

Someone whispered, "What is that?"

Another replied, "No idea, but it looks better than my sour bread."

Someone else leaned over and said with complete sincerity, "Gu, that smells like it could make a person believe in life again."

Gavin considered that high praise too.

Cho looked at the rice noodle rolls. At last, unable to resist, she asked rather delicately, "Did you get those... from the kitchen?"

Gavin nodded.

"More or less."

"The kitchen can make these?"

"If you describe them in enough detail, House-elves can make anything."

A complicated respect appeared on Cho's face, as though she had discovered a deeply hidden but momentous loophole in Hogwarts rules.

"So that's possible," she murmured.

Her gaze slowly moved from the rolls to Gavin's face, as if something had just occurred to her.

"Wait." She blinked. "You said you got these from the kitchen?"

"Of course." Gavin scooped up more congee.

Cho froze for two seconds.

"The kitchen?" she repeated, her tone changing. "But after the Sorting last night, didn't we all go straight to our common rooms?"

Gavin paused and looked up.

Cedric had still been studying the rice noodle rolls. Now he looked over too, his expression turning distinctly knowing.

Cho stared at Gavin and slowly finished her question.

"Gavin, don't tell me you went wandering the halls on your very first night."

Gavin set down his spoon. His expression remained calm, as though he found the accusation imprecise.

"Strictly speaking, I didn't."

"You didn't?"

"Of course not," Gavin explained methodically. "Wandering the halls usually involves roaming the school over a considerable distance without a clear purpose and with an obvious risk of breaking the rules. But from the Hufflepuff Common Room to the kitchen—"

He paused, then delivered his verdict.

"That's just dropping by a neighbor's."

"..."

Cho had no answer to that.

By then, only two pieces of rice noodle roll remained on Gavin's plate.

Cho glanced at them and looked away with faint regret. She had clearly been engaged in a small but genuine struggle between politeness and appetite.

Gavin noticed and pushed the plate toward her.

"Want to try some?"

Cho's eyes brightened. "Can I?"

"Of course."

She immediately picked up her fork, carefully cut off a small piece, and put it in her mouth. After only a couple of chews, her expression softened.

"That's the taste," she said quietly.

It sounded less like praise than the confirmation that some small lost thing had been found again.

Cedric watched closely from the side.

"That reaction makes me think I absolutely have to visit the kitchen today."

Gavin picked up his bowl. "Good luck."

Not far away, cups and plates clinked at the High Table. More people filled the Great Hall, and the noise gradually rose. An owl swept overhead, stirring a breeze that ruffled a napkin on the table.

But in their corner, the scent of rice and sauce still lingered, unlike anything around it.

Cho glanced at her timetable and stood up first.

"I have to go. My first class is Charms, on the fourth floor."

"Good luck."

"You too." Cho picked up her tray and glanced once more at the rolls. "If the kitchen makes these again, remember to tell me beforehand."

"We'll see."

"I knew you wouldn't share valuable information that easily."

She smiled and walked away.

Cedric stood as well. He was clearly still thinking about how to describe rice noodle rolls accurately to the House-elves, but as an older student, he had a more developed sense of time.

"I have Care of Magical Creatures this afternoon," Cedric said. "Before then, though, I think I'll give serious thought to whether Hufflepuff and the kitchen qualify as friendly neighbors."

"Let me know what you decide," Gavin said.

"I will." Cedric nodded. "And what you did last night wasn't dropping by a neighbor's."

"At least it wasn't a long journey."

Cedric laughed and left too.

Gavin finished the last of his congee. Warmth settled in his stomach, and even the cold damp that London and Scotland seemed to have conspired to produce retreated a little.

A person really did need a decent meal to find it easier to believe in the future.

He folded his napkin and looked down at his timetable.

First period: Transfiguration.

The sight of the word lifted his spirits again.

Of all Hogwarts' first-year subjects, Transfiguration was surely the one he most looked forward to. Compared with casting a spell that produced a fixed effect, changing an object's shape, properties, or even mode of existence came much closer to his instinctive idea of "magic."

"Finally," he murmured.

After he left the Great Hall, the corridors were already crowded with first-years carrying textbooks and parchment.

Hogwarts clearly had no intention of making things easy for first-years finding classrooms on their own for the first time. Staircases moved, corridors branched too often, and most of the portraits lacked any sense of responsibility when giving directions. Students kept stopping to check their timetables, while others stared helplessly at moving staircases and unexpected turns.

As Gavin walked, he memorized the route.

He disliked wasting time on the same problem twice.

"Gu! Gu!"

Gavin turned. Ernie Macmillan was jogging toward him with his books in his arms, looking slightly hurried. His robes were neatly buttoned, his hair neatly combed, and even his breathlessness carried a solemn effort to maintain his dignity.

"Good morning, Macmillan."

"Good morning." Ernie stopped and gave a formal nod before lowering his voice. "Are you going to the Transfiguration classroom too?"

"Obviously."

"Excellent." Ernie seemed relieved. "I nearly went up to the second floor. Luckily, I asked a portrait, though he kept stressing that remembering the way was a basic duty for a first-year."

"He probably just wanted to feel useful."

"Are all portraits like that?"

"Probably."

They walked on together.

Before long, they spotted Justin Finch-Fletchley at a corner. He stood at a fork with his books in his arms, cautiously studying the wall for signs that were not there. He looked like someone discovering for the first time that Britain's finest boarding schools and magical schools did not share the same standards of infrastructure.

"Finch-Fletchley."

Justin turned, his face plainly saying, Thank goodness, living people.

"Thank goodness. I was starting to wonder if they designed this school like this on purpose."

"Quite possibly," Gavin said evenly.

"You don't sound surprised at all."

"It fits the Wizarding World's usual way of doing things."

Justin hurried to catch up and walked alongside them. "Honestly," he said quietly, "if the staircases at Eton suddenly changed direction, I doubt half the students would survive their first term."

"Then Eton clearly doesn't put enough emphasis on teaching students to adapt."

Justin glanced at him. He seemed to detect a faint jab in the remark, but could find no fault with it.

Ernie cleared his throat softly, as though he felt someone in the group ought to show a little more solemnity when Eton came up.

"In any case," Ernie said after another discreet cough, "Hogwarts is a school with a long tradition. I'm sure there's a deeper purpose to some of its arrangements."

"Like making eleven-year-olds risk their lives finding a classroom on their first day?"

Ernie opened his mouth but found no reply.

Gavin thought that if Justin and Ernie grew close, conversations like this would make the atmosphere in the Hufflepuff dormitory at night rather entertaining.

Plenty of students had arrived by the time the three reached the classroom.

First-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws mingled together. The room was fairly quiet, though not because of discipline. It was the natural nerves of students facing an unfamiliar class. Some flipped through their textbooks, some silently rehearsed their timetables, and others tried so hard to look unruffled that they failed to notice they were holding their quills upside down.

The classroom was a tall stone chamber with narrow windows. Morning light slanted through them, illuminating every speck of dust in the air.

There was no professor at the front.

Only a tabby cat sat perfectly upright on the corner of the desk.

It sat far too upright.

Its tail was tucked neatly around itself, its expression stern, and even its gaze held an almost tangible threat.

The first-years coming through the door all but instinctively moved more quietly.

"It keeps watching us," Justin whispered.

"Cats watch people. That's normal," Ernie whispered back.

"Normal cats don't look as if they're about to take points off you."

Ernie considered that and found he quite agreed.

Gavin, of course, recognized the cat.

Recognizing it was one thing. Pretending not to was another.

He sat near the front and laid out his textbook, quill, and parchment one by one, as calmly as if preparing for an experiment. Ernie sat to his left and Justin to his right. A few Ravenclaw first-years sat across the front row, all looking intensely focused, as though ready to prove in their first lesson that the Sorting had made the right choice.

Gavin looked at the tabby on the desk and remarked, seemingly offhand, "Transfiguration isn't a bad way to start."

Justin did not understand. "What?"

"I mean, Transfiguration really is one of the most powerful forms of magic."

Gavin deliberately raised his voice a little.

Several people nearby instinctively looked up at him.

Passing judgment on a subject before the first proper lesson had even begun made him sound rather bold for a new student.

Ernie turned his head too. "Why do you say that?"

Gavin was not speaking particularly loudly, but in the already quiet classroom, his voice carried clearly to the rows in front and behind him.

"Because it encompasses everything. Turning one thing into another is, essentially, directly altering the outward expression of matter. Shape, material, color, structure, and even more complex combinations of changes all fall within its scope."

He looked at the cat on the teacher's desk, his tone calm and serious.

"Charms usually add effects to existing things, but Transfiguration rewrites the things themselves. In terms of potential alone, this subject has an astonishingly high ceiling."

A Ravenclaw girl in the front row could not help turning around, as though she wanted to see who was saying such things before their very first lesson.

Justin blinked.

"You only started school yesterday."

"That doesn't stop me from liking it."

Then, as though something had suddenly occurred to him, he added with utmost sincerity:

"Transfiguration is my favorite."

The moment he finished speaking, the tabby cat on the desk leaped lightly into the air.

A second later, amid a chorus of gasps, the cat silently stretched, lengthened, and transformed in midair. Black robes fell into place, a hat brim swung around, and by the time she landed, she had become Professor McGonagall.

The classroom instantly fell even more silent.

Someone even dropped their quill onto their desk.

Justin's mouth hung slightly open, while Ernie sat bolt upright, looking as solemn as though he had suddenly realized he had not been behaving with sufficient dignity in front of a professor.

Gavin obligingly showed just the right hint of surprise too.

Professor McGonagall placed the attendance register on her desk and swept her gaze over the class, finally letting it rest on Gavin's face for a moment.

"Mr. Gu," she said, "I am pleased to hear you hold Transfiguration in such high regard."

"I mean every word, Professor."

Justin turned to look at Gavin, his mouth still slightly open, as though to say, "You can do that?"

Professor McGonagall watched him for another two seconds, but said nothing more. She simply turned and wrote "Transfiguration" on the blackboard.

Her handwriting was clean and sharp, just like her.

"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone who intends to fool around in my classroom, let their attention wander, or imagine this subject is merely a matter of turning matches into needles will very quickly discover just how wrong they are."

The effect of those words was remarkable.

The new students, who had still been somewhat restless, immediately fell into an almost reverent silence.

Professor McGonagall began by explaining the basic principles of Transfiguration in extremely concise terms. She did not speak quickly, but neither did she make allowances; every word was clear and precise, as though its place had long since been arranged in her mind. Gavin listened intently, even more attentively than he had while studying the textbook the previous night.

He soon realized that the first-year textbook covered no more than the paving stone at the entrance, while Professor McGonagall's actual knowledge clearly went far beyond it.

Then she assigned them the task of turning the matches on their desks into silver needles.

"Do not wave your wands about at random, do not recite spells carelessly, and do not entertain any unrealistic hopes of succeeding through luck," she said. "No one is to attempt any further changes without my permission."

The new students immediately bent their heads and set to work.

Soon, the classroom filled with overlapping incantations and the cautious, disordered swishing of beginners' wands.

Most of the matches did not react.

A few glowed faintly for a moment.

One match, belonging to who knew whom, even began to give off a thin wisp of smoke. A single look from Professor McGonagall frightened its owner into immediately putting down their wand.

Ernie was so nervous that sweat was almost beading on his forehead. Justin was clearly trying hard to appear composed, but his match lay motionless on the desk, showing no intention whatsoever of helping a student who would otherwise have been bound for Eton preserve his dignity.

Gavin, however, was in no hurry.

He first lowered his head to examine the match, as though checking something, and only then raised his wand.

His movement was steady.

His incantation was clear too.

A second later, before everyone's eyes, the match neatly transformed into a slender silver needle. Its shaft reflected the morning light, gleaming almost dazzlingly.

Justin, who was closest to him, froze first.

Ernie stopped what he was doing too and stared at the silver needle, his expression bordering on shock.

Several Ravenclaw students in the front row also turned around.

Their matches could, at best, be described as "showing a slight inclination to change," while Gavin had already finished outright.

Professor McGonagall came over.

She glanced down at the silver needle, and a distinct spark of genuine interest entered her gaze.

"Very good, Mr. Gu." She nodded.

The whole class heard her.

A ripple of excitement ran through the silence on the Hufflepuff side, while a rather subtle silence settled over the Ravenclaws. It was the silence of people who had expected to be the first to shine today, only to find that someone had raised the bar right from the start.

But Gavin did not stop there.

He looked at the silver needle as though considering something, then raised his head and asked:

"Professor, if its appearance has already changed, wouldn't altering its size also count as a further adjustment under the same principle?"

Quite a few people in the classroom went blank for a moment.

Most of them were still at the stage of wondering how to make their matches so much as budge, while Gavin was already asking about the next level.

Professor McGonagall looked at him, one eyebrow moving ever so slightly.

"In theory, yes. However, that is beyond the scope of your first lesson."

"I'd like to try."

Had another student said that, it might have sounded rather presumptuous. But his silver needle was still lying on the desk, gleaming brightly in support of his words.

Professor McGonagall paused for two seconds and, surprisingly, did not refuse.

"You may. But you are only permitted to adjust its size. Do not attempt any more complex changes to its properties."

"Understood, Professor."

Gavin raised his wand again.

This time, his movement was slower.

Not because he was hesitating, but as though he was deliberately feeling out the subtler difference in control. As his wand tip lowered, the silver needle on the desk trembled slightly, then visibly shrank through an exceptionally smooth transformation.

A series of muffled gasps rose around the classroom.

Even Professor McGonagall did not speak immediately.

She bent down to examine the smaller silver needle closely. When she straightened, her expression remained restrained, but her voice carried unmistakable approval.

"Ten points to Hufflepuff."

Ernie's eyes lit up at once.

Justin could not help smiling either.

On the other side, several Ravenclaw first-years who had still been taking notes were now so astonished they could barely hold their quills.

They felt a little resentful.

But they had no idea what they could do about it.

Professor McGonagall looked at Gavin again.

"You do indeed have some understanding of Transfiguration of your own, Mr. Gu."

"I'm simply interested, Professor."

"An interest pursued seriously enough is often a good thing."

She should have continued checking on the other students, but she did not leave immediately.

Gavin looked up at her, clearly unwilling to let the opportunity pass.

"Professor, I have a question. It occurred to me while I was reading."

"Go ahead."

"What exactly distinguishes permanent Transfiguration from ordinary Transfiguration? Is it how long the magic sustains it, or some sort of... more thorough rewriting at the material level?"

The classroom fell utterly silent.

Ernie slowly turned to look at Gavin, his expression that of someone watching a human anomaly attempt to discuss seventh-year material with a professor in their very first lesson.

Justin fell silent too.

He suddenly felt that his previous understanding of the word "prodigy" might have been far too conservative.

Professor McGonagall, however, showed no sign of offense or impatience.

Quite the opposite: for the first time, a serious, almost appraising look appeared in her eyes.

"That is a good question," Professor McGonagall said. "But it is still too early for you."

"I'd at least like to know which direction to take."

Professor McGonagall looked at him for a moment, then actually gave him a brief answer. She did not go into great depth, merely touching on the stability of Transfiguration, the caster's degree of understanding, and how, in certain higher-level transformations, "persistence" and "reality" were not quite the same thing.

To first-year students, those words were already as good as an incomprehensible ancient text.

Yet Gavin listened intently, his eyes almost lighting up.

"So the key isn't simply sustaining the spell, but making the transformation itself sufficiently self-consistent?"

From Professor McGonagall's explanation, Permanent Transfiguration involved the most fundamental changes at the material level, whereas ordinary Transfiguration was merely a change in outward form sustained by magic.

That was somewhat similar to Gavin's own earlier conjecture.

Professor McGonagall looked at him and finally gave a very slight nod.

"You could understand it that way."

This time, she scarcely bothered to hide the satisfaction in her voice.

"However," Professor McGonagall added, "until you have truly mastered the basics, do not imagine you can skip the stairs and go straight to the top of the tower, Mr. Gu."

"I'll make sure of my footing on the stairs first, Professor."

"I hope so."

Professor McGonagall finally turned away and continued checking on the other students' practice.

But Gavin had already lost all awareness of his surroundings.

He looked down at the silver needle on his desk and recalled those few explanations about stability and reality. It was as though a new door had suddenly been thrown open before him, drawing all his attention inside. For the moment, he could not even spare a thought for the way Ernie and Justin were looking at him.

"Gu," Justin finally said quietly after quite a while, "you were taking your first lesson just now, right?"

"Yes."

"Then why do I feel like I couldn't understand any of it?"

"Could it be because you didn't prepare beforehand?"

"Is that it?"

"Yes. Next time, prepare 'just a little' more."

Ernie was silent for two seconds.

"I'm starting to think the Sorting Hat might have had its own reasons for putting you in Hufflepuff."

Gavin did not respond.

He simply stared at the shrunken silver needle, a lingering trace of excitement still in his eyes, as though he had already glimpsed, through this basic first-year lesson, a far wider and more dangerous world beyond it.

And that was what he truly wanted.