The Defense Against Dark Magic office.
When Professor McGonagall pushed the door open and entered, Douglas was sitting behind his desk, writing something down.
Snape stood by the window, half his body hidden beyond the reach of the wall lamps.
Clearly, the two had just been discussing something.
McGonagall clutched a sheet of parchment.
She slapped it onto Douglas's desk.
"Look at what you've done. This isn't what we agreed on."
Douglas put down his quill and glanced down.
It was a classroom record from a fifth-year Transfiguration lesson.
Harry Potter's name was written on the first line.
"Turning a drinking glass into a bird."
McGonagall pressed her lips together.
"It took him three minutes."
Douglas said nothing.
"Three minutes, Douglas."
McGonagall jabbed a finger at the record.
"He didn't look at the glass. He didn't imagine the texture of feathers, or the curve of outspread wings, or try to feel what a living bird should be like. He took out some scrap paper and drew a force diagram."
She paused, a very faint breath escaping her throat.
"He was calculating geometric formulas for magic transmission."
Douglas leaned back in his chair, his hands folded over his stomach.
"And the result?"
"The result?"
McGonagall's pitch rose half a step.
"The glass turned into a bird. Its feathers were arranged so precisely that every single one met so-called aerodynamic standards. The curvature of its wings could withstand any wind test. It flapped twice on the desk."
Her lips tightened into a line.
"Then it fell."
"Landed back on the desk and turned back into a glass."
The office was silent for three seconds.
"Because that bird had no soul."
McGonagall spoke.
"Every one of its feathers was right. Its weight was right. Its color was right. Its wingspan proportions were right.