Professor McGonagall had entertained many challenging questions over the years, but when Hermione Granger approached her with an inquiry regarding permanent Transfiguration, she found herself momentarily taken aback.
She had been overseeing a student’s attempt at basic animal Transfiguration when Hermione’s measured voice cut through the usual murmur of the cssroom.
"Professor McGonagall, I had a question regarding the theory of permanent Transfiguration. Could I trouble you for a moment?"
McGonagall turned to study her, setting aside her wand with a careful motion. "That is an advanced question for a second-year, Miss Granger," she said, though there was no censure in her tone—only curiosity. "But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised."
She noted how Hermione’s grip on her wand tightened slightly, her posture betraying the depth of her investment in the topic. That, more than the question itself, intrigued McGonagall.
She folded her hands before her, considering how best to expin. "True permanence in Transfiguration is not determined by power alone, nor by mere intent. Any skilled witch or wizard can force a transformation to st for an extended period, but that is simply sustaining a spell—it is not true change."
McGonagall allowed a moment for Hermione to absorb this before she continued, her tone shifting into the deliberate cadence of an instructor imparting something rarely discussed in standard coursework. "To make a Transfiguration permanent, one must not only shape the magic to reflect the change but convince magic itself that no other state was ever possible. It is not enough to force an object into a new form; it must be redefined at its very core."
There it was again—the slight tightening of Hermione’s fingers around her wand, the flicker of comprehension behind her eyes. She understands. McGonagall had long since learned how to recognize that moment when a student grasped a concept not just intellectually but instinctively.
“That is why permanent Transfigurations are rare,” McGonagall continued, her voice measured. “The object must accept the transformation, not simply be subjected to it. Otherwise, reality will push back—the magic will unravel, and the object will return to what it once was.”
She could sense the other students watching now, their attention drawn to the exchange. Not all of them fully understood the significance of the conversation, but they recognized that something important was being discussed.
McGonagall observed Hermione for another moment before concluding, "That is, of course, not something taught until one pursues a Mastery in Transfiguration, Miss Granger. It is a discipline that requires both skill and great caution—as I’m sure you understand."
Hermione nodded, her expression distant, lost in thought. But McGonagall barely had time to return her attention to the css before movement at Hermione’s desk caught her eye. The girl’s wand was raised before McGonagall could issue a caution, and then—it happened.
The transformation was immediate and fwless. McGonagall’s breath hitched as the beetle before Hermione shifted, there was no way a girl barely 13 years of age and half way into her 2nd year of education was able to pull this off, she subtlety cast a finite incantation to end the transfiguration, and nothing happened.
For the first time in years, McGonagall found herself at a loss for words.
She schooled her features into their usual impassivity, though her mind was racing. The magnitude of what she had just witnessed settled into her bones like a lead weight. This was Mastery-level Transfiguration. From a thirteen-year-old.
“Ten points to Slytherin for a fwless Transfiguration,” McGonagall finally said, her voice composed. She let the silence stretch for a moment longer before adding, almost as an afterthought—but very deliberately, “See me after css.”
It had been decades since she had seen such innate talent in her field from a student, not since James Potter. She had hoped—perhaps naively—that Harry would inherit his father’s gift for the subject. But the boy’s aptitude y elsewhere. He excelled in Defense, where speed and instinct mattered more than precision and control.
No doubt, that had been shaped by his upbringing. A flicker of anger passed through her—disgust for the way those wretched retives had treated him. But she forced it aside. This was not the time for those thoughts.
Miss Granger was just as gifted as James Potter—if not more so—but where James had coasted on his talent, she possessed an insatiable hunger to push herself further. That, more than anything, was likely what had tipped the Sorting Hat’s decision in favor of Slytherin. Her ambitious nature was clear, as was her drive for power as obvious as the Sun, no what really annoyed her, was how quintessential Gryffindor Miss Granger was whenever danger was present. She had seen the memory from Percy Weasley, and she couldn't believe what she had seen. a mere slip of a girl, had commanded the students to move out of her way, put herself between them and the troll, dueled it into submission, and the power she wielded!
In centuries, the Book of Admissions had never made a mistake.
And yet, it had listed Miss Granger as Muggleborn.
But Muggleborns did not wield Family Magic. They did not wear an heir ring.
Her internal musings came to an end as the bell rang signalling the end of the css, she watched as Hermione waited for the students to leave, she caught a group of Slytherin's waiting for Hermione, she smiled, at least she had some friends now, Severus had commented in their staff meetings about her chosen solitude.
Wordlessly, she gestured for Hermione to follow, leading her into the private office at the rear of the cssroom. The room was warm, the fire already crackling softly in the hearth. McGonagall settled into her chair, then inclined her head toward the seat opposite her.
“Sit, Miss Granger.”
She had wanted to speak with Miss Granger for months now.
She and Amelia still met regurly, and their conversations often returned to Hermione’s involvement in safeguarding Mr. Potter.
The guilt settled heavily in her chest, a weight she had carried for over a decade. She had fought Albus’s decision, had argued against leaving Harry with those Muggles, but in the end, she had acquiesced. She had allowed it. And now, seeing another child stepping in to protect him, she couldn’t help but feel that she had failed him.
“Your work in css today was stupendous, Miss Granger.” McGonagall’s voice was measured, but her gaze was keen, appraising.
“I must confess, Albus had already suggested you were likely far beyond the sylbus. He expressed concern that you were not being adequately challenged, and while the staff agreed, none of us truly grasped the extent of your abilities.”
“Not until today.”
She watched Miss Granger closely, she didn't seem surprised at all that the staff had been discussing her, almost as if she expected it. “I can’t have a student of your talent wasting time in my css.” She took a sip of tea, her voice turning dry. “And yes, I’m aware of the irony in an educator calling her own css a ‘waste of time.’” she took a sup of her tea that had appeared on the desk between them, courtesy of the house elves.
“Clearly, the standard sylbus will not suffice.” McGonagall set her teacup down, leveling Hermione with an appraising gaze. “From this point forward, you will no longer be following the coursework assigned to the rest of the students.”
“Instead, I intend to test your limits.”
Hermione stiffened, her grip on the teacup tightening slightly. Her expression remained carefully composed, but McGonagall caught the way her shoulders tensed, the flicker of something sharp and defiant in her gaze.
“Limits,” Hermione said, the word edged with something cold and brittle, as though she had tasted poison. She set her teacup down with deliberate precision before looking McGonagall directly in the eye.
"Limits are for those who have stopped pushing themselves." Hermione’s voice was quiet, but the edge in it was sharp as a bde. She met McGonagall’s gaze, unwavering. "I will never stop."
Minerva studied the girl before her. There was a story there—of that, she was certain. But the way Hermione spoke, the cold, absolute certainty in her words—
That was pure Slytherin.
Any doubt she had ever harbored about Miss Granger’s Sorting was gone.
But Minerva also felt a fair bit of excitement at that statement, if this girl was never going to stop pushing herself, teaching her would be well worth the effort. The grin Minerva returned was sharp, something out of pce. “Good,” she said, her voice carrying no small measure of satisfaction. “Because you will need that resolve for what I have pnned for you.”
A slow, knowing smirk curled at the edge of Hermione’s lips. Good.
“Then let’s begin.”
McGonagall rose from her chair, moving toward a locked cupboard at the back of the office. With a flick of her wand, the warded door clicked open, revealing something carefully wrapped in deep blue velvet. She lifted it carefully, turning back to Hermione as she unwrapped it.
In her hands rested a bracer, engraved with intricate Celtic runes, the metal glinting softly in the firelight.
“This, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, her tone carrying the weight of something deeply personal, “is my Magnum Opus—the culmination of my studies over the years.”
She pced the bracer gently on the desk between them.
“It is one of a kind. A training tool designed to restrict the flow of magic in varying degrees, forcing the caster to refine their control with absolute precision."
“Some wizards, even Headmaster Dumbledore, are surprisingly zy spellcasters in their own way. Raw magical power can compensate for a ck of precision, allowing even the most intricate spells to be brute-forced into effect—much like you did in css today.”
It was at this moment that Minerva chose to reveal what they both already knew—that she saw more than Miss Granger allowed others to see.
“And some witches,” she said, her tone deliberate, “use magics not of their own.”
Hermione froze.
A flicker of something crossed her expression—too fleeting to name, but unmistakable. There it is, McGonagall thought. If that wasn’t an admission, nothing ever would be.“Your secrets are your own, Miss Granger. But rest assured—you are not the first to wield magics of a different nature, nor will you be the st.” McGonagall allowed a pause, letting that truth settle between them.
“Now, to expin why this is relevant to you—this is not the only training tool in existence for refining magical control. But it is the only one that can restrict access to specific wavelengths of magic.”
She tapped the bracer lightly, watching as the engraved runes shimmered in the firelight.
This would be how she repaid Miss Granger, for her failings as a teacher and a friend to the Potters.
“For example,” McGonagall continued, her voice deliberate, “it can be attuned to focus solely on specific magical wavelengths—Nature and Chaotic Magic.”
She met Hermione’s gaze. “The kind used by the Faerie Courts.”
Hermione’s eyes widened—just a fraction—but it was enough. The measured look that followed was sharper, more assessing, as though she were carefully deciding exactly how to handle this revetion.
McGonagall felt it then—a distinct chill in the air. Had she miscalcuted? Had she underestimated just how fiercely Miss Granger would protect her secrets? The temperature in the room dropped. Frost curled along the edges of the firepce, creeping outward in delicate fractals, forming where there should have been only warmth.
McGonagall’s breath came out in a faint wisp of condensation. Winter.
She had gravely underestimated Miss Granger. The presence of ice meant only one thing—Winter had already marked her. And with it came power beyond reckoning.
McGonagall straightened, folding her hands before her. Her voice was steady, deliberate.
“Hermione Jean Dagworth-Granger, I give you my word—I will tell no one of this.”
The magic accepted it immediately. A vow given, a vow sealed. The air in the room seemed to settle, the frost retreating ever so slightly. McGonagall exhaled softly.
Only a Fae could have accepted a vow like that.
