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HRHL# Chapter 132: Cassandra’s Pride {2}
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 19:10:09 +0000 UTC"Alright, for your first lesson this term, you will learn how to turn a beetle into a button."
Professor McGonagall's voice was steady as she placed a six-legged beetle, frantically struggling, onto the lectern. "Watch carefully, I will only demonstrate this once. You must picture the button clearly in your mind, and you must imagine it strongly. You have to turn the beetle into a button—Three, two, one, Vera Verto!"
A magical scene unfolded. Under Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration spell, the beetle transformed into a small, black button.
She picked up the button and passed it around for the students to examine.
"This will be your task for today's lesson—turning beetles into buttons." With a wave of her wand, a flurry of small boxes flew out from the lectern, each containing a beetle awaiting its transformation.
"I must remind you," Professor McGonagall said sternly, "not to underestimate this lesson. This is the transformation of a living creature into a non-living object. It fundamentally changes the essence of the subject—once the beetle is transfigured into a button, it is no longer a beetle. If you attempt to feed this button to Neville's toad, it might die from indigestion."
She had made a dry joke, and the class laughed along—except for Neville.
He had actually taken a moment to seriously consider the tragic fate of Trevor if he swallowed the button, and for a second, he felt a pang of sympathy.
Professor McGonagall proceeded to go over the key points of Transfiguration—something she did at the start of every lesson.
While the core principles of each class remained largely the same, constant reinforcement was necessary for young wizards to internalize the knowledge over time.
She walked over to Harry and saw that he had successfully transfigured his beetle into a metal button—one that was even engraved with the Gryffindor lion, exquisite in detail.
"Very impressive, Mr. Potter." Professor McGonagall nodded approvingly, smiling slightly. "An excellent piece of Transfiguration. Five points to Gryffindor."
"Professor, I have a question," Harry suddenly said.
Professor McGonagall's stern expression softened slightly. Looking into those green eyes, she couldn't help but be reminded of the ever-charming Lily.
"Go ahead, Mr. Potter," she said with a nod.
"Professor, as we saw in our first year, you are an Animagus," Harry carefully chose his words, making sure not to sound offensive. "I know your Animagus form is a cat, so I was wondering—when you transform, do you feel an urge to eat mice?"
As he spoke, he reached out and grabbed Scabbers.
Scabbers wriggled frantically in his grip, squeaking in distress as he struggled to escape Harry’s clutches.
Professor McGonagall's expression twitched slightly. She looked at Harry, only to find nothing but pure sincerity in those green eyes.
Hmm… Yes, this child definitely takes after Lily, not that troublesome James.
"Why would you think that, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall asked. "Even when I take the form of a cat through Animagus transformation, I am still, at my core, a human."
"Oh, I see." Harry nodded repeatedly. "So, that means you don’t share any other cat-like preferences either?"
"No," Professor McGonagall confirmed seriously.
Harry suddenly felt a little deflated.
Poppy…
How had he not realized this before? Even if he turned into a unicorn, Poppy wouldn’t suddenly develop a taste for grass…
Of course, Poppy was a person. Why would he adopt the habits of a unicorn?
"I have a question too, Professor," Ron raised his hand.
Having seen Harry ask questions that made professors either think deeply or feel helpless, Ron was a little envious.
Seeing that it wasn’t Harry but Ron asking, Professor McGonagall let out a quiet sigh of relief.
Thank goodness. As long as it’s not Mr. Potter.
She was genuinely worried that Harry would throw another bizarre question at her.
"Go ahead," she said.
"If a Dark wizard transfigured this entire desk into a drumstick and made me eat it," Ron patted the desk in front of him, "when the Transfiguration wore off, would my stomach explode? Or, could I trick a Dark wizard into eating such a drumstick?"
Professor McGonagall clutched the collar of her robes and took a deep breath.
"Good heavens, Mr. Weasley…" she stammered, "How… how could you even think of such a thing?"
Ron's heart skipped a beat. He had a sinking feeling that his question might not have been the best.
"I must remind you, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said sternly, regaining her composure, "do not let your twin brothers corrupt you! Furthermore, as stated in Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration, food is one of the five principal exceptions—you cannot transfigure inedible objects into real food!"
"Understood, Professor," Ron muttered, lowering his head.
News of Ron's question spread quickly. By dinnertime, the Weasley twins had already heard about it.
"Oh, Ronniekins," Fred declared, grinning broadly. "You truly are our brother—my goodness, what a brilliant and creative idea… For the first time, I actually believe you weren’t just a stray Mum picked up from a rubbish heap!"
"You’re the ones Mum picked up," Ron rolled his eyes. He was twelve now—he wouldn't fall for their tricks anymore.
But back when he was seven, he had believed them.
He had cried his eyes out and run to his dad for help.
Arthur Weasley had shot the twins a glare before giving them a stern lecture right then and there.
But when Ron heard the scolding, he cried even harder—damn it.
His father’s words were—
“Oh, Merlin! Fred! George! Why did you have to tell him the truth? Ron is still a child! He’s only seven! How could you do such a thing?”
Ron didn’t remember how long he cried, but by dinnertime that evening, his father, Fred, and George all had their heads bowed, enduring their mother’s reprimand.
“Shame, shame, shame. And who was it that went crying to Dad?” Fred reached out and playfully scraped his finger down his cheek. “But I must admit, your idea was quite interesting—just a little… hmm, not quite strong enough. Let me think about how we can incorporate your prank into one of our tricks.”
With that, the twins chuckled and left the Great Hall, whispering to each other.
“When you have two brothers like that, you really start to understand just how miserable childhood can be.” Ron shrugged and said to his friends.
Hermione didn’t pay Ron any attention. Instead, she quietly moved closer to Harry and whispered, “Harry, Harry?”
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“Could you… take me with you tonight?” Hermione said, then realized her words might have been ambiguous. She flashed an embarrassed smile, revealing her bunny-like teeth, and quickly clarified, “I mean, when you go to Professor Lockhart’s office to help him with his letters.”
“Well…” Harry actually wanted to bring her along—writing those letters was pure torture.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Granger.” A sudden voice interrupted.
Hermione turned around in surprise and excitement upon hearing Lockhart’s voice but also felt a tinge of disappointment.
“Such a good child,” Lockhart said, winking at her. “But I can’t always have Harry helping me with my letters, can I? Next time I need to reply to my adoring fans, I may have to ask for your help, Miss Granger.”
“Of course, Professor!” Hermione said eagerly.
“Well then, Harry,” Lockhart said in his usual overly familiar manner, “don’t forget our appointment tonight. I’ve been looking forward to your assistance—”
“Harry, Harry? Are you okay?” Colin’s voice chimed in at just the right moment.
“Come on, let your little fan take a picture of us.” Lockhart grinned, draping an arm around Harry’s shoulders and addressing Colin. “Mr. Creevey, what are you waiting for?”
Click! The camera shutter snapped, and Colin flashed an ‘OK’ sign.
“Well then, I’ll be expecting you in my office tonight, Harry.”
With that, Lockhart beamed and made his way to the staff table.
Harry watched Lockhart’s retreating figure—only to meet the deep, black eyes of Professor Snape, who was staring in his direction.
Noticing Harry’s gaze, Snape’s expression twisted into one of extreme disdain.
In an instant, Harry understood exactly what that look meant—
Potter, associating with someone like that? How utterly disgraceful!
Harry shrugged. Snape’s sudden and unwarranted concern left him feeling a little lost.
Might as well ignore it.
After dinner, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room. He took a moment to gather the things he would need—such as Aging Potion and his two-way mirror—before heading out.
As he left, a thought struck him—
Wait, I have a money pouch. Why don’t I carry these things with me all the time?
He chuckled at himself and continued on toward Lockhart’s office.
Halfway there, he suddenly thought he heard hushed voices.
He lifted his head. The sound seemed to be coming from above… or maybe from beside him? It was difficult to pinpoint the exact direction.
Harry flicked his wand and cast Homenum Revelio.
But the spell didn’t detect any presence.
Maybe it’s just a ghost, he thought, shrugging it off as he arrived at Lockhart’s office.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor’s office was behind the classroom—up the internal staircase.
Harry knocked. Upon receiving permission to enter, he pushed the door open.
The spacious office was cluttered with letters and packages sent by adoring fans.
The walls were adorned with countless framed portraits of Lockhart, illuminated brightly by candlelight. Some of the pictures were even autographed. The desk was piled high with glossy photographs.
“Ah! Our young savior has arrived!” Lockhart’s voice was, as always, brimming with enthusiasm. “Come in, Harry, come in!”
Harry stood there, dumbfounded, staring at the sheer number of letters and packages filling the room. Honestly, even if the room were overflowing with Galleons, he wouldn’t be this shocked… but this many letters? He had never seen anything like it.
Noticing Harry’s astonishment, Lockhart chuckled.
“You simply can’t refuse the love of your fans, can you?” He winked and reached for a bottle of eyedrops, squeezing a few drops into his eyes.
“Professor, what’s that for?” Harry asked, puzzled.
“This keeps my eyes healthy,” Lockhart said with a gentle smile. “After all, as you know, these eyes represent countless Galleons… and the potential for even more adventures.”
Harry found himself at a loss for words, so he simply nodded. “Yes, Professor.”
Just then, an owl lightly tapped against the window.
Lockhart opened it and took the letter from the owl’s beak. Inside was a note—along with a lock of hair.
“Why is there hair in it?” Harry asked curiously.
Lockhart chuckled, stuffing the hair back into the envelope with a resigned sigh. “You see, Harry, many devoted fans don’t really care about personal boundaries. All we can do is smile and accept their… generosity.”
He sighed lightly as he spoke.
“Well then, you can start addressing the envelopes.” Lockhart handed Harry a stack of letters, as if this were some great honor. “The first one goes to Miss Gladys—bless her heart, one of my most ardent admirers.”
Harry didn’t mind the task. He had nothing better to do anyway—and he needed this opportunity to contact Bodrig.
“Remember, Harry,” Lockhart said as he scribbled with his quill, “fame is a fickle friend.”
Looking up, he added wistfully, “Being famous is hard, Harry. The first thing you must understand is that a celebrity must act the part—you are the savior of the wizarding world. You mustn’t get too close to your fans, especially overly enthusiastic ones like Mr. Creevey.”
“Why, Professor?” Harry asked earnestly. He had to admit, when it came to being famous, Lockhart did have more experience.
“Don’t ask why, Harry,” Lockhart said cheerfully. “Overzealous fans have no sense of personal space. You must maintain a certain distance—that way, their admiration for you will last even longer.”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” he added with a wink.
“You really do have a lot of experience.” Harry offered a sincere compliment.
Lockhart beamed, twirling his quill under his chin, utterly pleased.
