Chapter 16: Choosing Sides
The outcome of the Potions class was never in doubt.
When Professor Slughorn called time and instructed everyone to bottle their potions, Regulus's submission stood in stark contrast on the front desk.
The liquid in the other vials was off-color, cloudy, or flecked with impurities — some were even emitting suspicious bubbles.
Only Regulus's potion — a clear, pale green fluid — gleamed with a healthy luster in its glass vial, not a trace of sediment when left to settle.
Slughorn held it up to the light for a long while, unabashed delight spreading across his round face.
"Exemplary!" he announced, voice ringing through the underground classroom. "Mister Black, the quality of this potion has already reached the standard for 'Outstanding.' Tell me — did you employ any special technique?"
"I simply processed each ingredient according to its properties, Professor," Regulus answered calmly.
"Snake fang powder needs to be fully dissolved. The concentration of magic is highest at the tip of a porcupine quill. And the neutralizing action of the flobberworm mucus requires precise timing."
Slughorn's eyes lit up. "You mentioned the point of highest magical concentration — you observed that yourself?"
"Yes, Professor. By sensing the faint magical energy radiating from the ingredients." Whispers rippled through the room. Sensing ingredient magic? Was that something a first-year was supposed to know?
Slughorn gave Regulus an appreciative look but did not press further. He simply nodded: "Come to my office after class, Mister Black."
After the lesson, Regulus spent ten minutes in Slughorn's office.
The portly professor enthusiastically showed off his collection of rare ingredients, hinted at the existence of the Slug Club, and presented Regulus with a small vial of Felix Felicis as encouragement.
It was a diluted version, but for a first-year, it was an extraordinary gift.
"Nurture that talent, my boy." Slughorn patted his shoulder as he showed him out. "Potions demands more than deft hands — it demands a keen perception. You have the gift."
Regulus thanked him and tucked the diluted Felix Felicis into the inner pocket of his robe. Used wisely, it could save a life; used carelessly, it was trouble.
Transfiguration was held in a bright second-floor classroom with spacious windows, abundant sunlight, and air carrying faint notes of wood and parchment.
Professor McGonagall was already waiting at the front, dressed in deep green robes, hair in its customary severe bun, expression solemn.
"Transfiguration," she began once all students were seated, "is the most complex, the most dangerous, and the most elegant branch of magic.
It demands precise incantation, clear intent, and a thorough understanding of matter."
She raised her wand and tapped lightly. A match on the desk transformed into a silver needle.
"Today we begin with the most fundamental exercise: match to needle."
Matches were distributed. Students began their attempts.
The classroom soon filled with garbled incantations and wand-waving. Most students' matches merely twisted and warped into some hybrid halfway between match and needle.
Regulus picked up the match on his desk and examined it closely.
This match was a stable material structure — the arrangement of wood fibers, the composition of the sulfur head, the overall shape and density.
Transfiguration could alter this entire structure.
Rearranging the wood fibers into a metallic crystalline structure, converting the sulfur into a silver needle tip — all while maintaining the object's continuity and integrity.
He raised his wand and spoke the incantation softly: "Vera Verto."
The wand tip gave the lightest of taps.
The match trembled on the desk and began a gradual transformation.
The wooden body shifted from brown to silver-white. The grain vanished. The surface became smooth.
The sulfur head contracted and reshaped into a sharp needle point.
The entire process lasted three seconds. When it ended, a perfect silver needle lay on the desk — its eye clear, its shaft perfectly straight.
Professor McGonagall happened to be passing his desk at that moment.
She stopped and looked down at the needle. She picked it up and examined it against the light.
"A flawless transformation," she said, a thread of surprise in her voice. "Achieved on the first attempt. No repeated tries, no residual material. Mister Black, have you practiced this spell before?"
"I've studied the principle, Professor," Regulus replied. "But today was my first time applying it to a match-to-needle transformation."
"The principle?"
"Regarding the stability of material structures and the efficiency of conversion." Regulus seized the opening. "I've been thinking about a question, Professor. May I ask?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow slightly. "Go on."
"The purpose of Transfiguration is to change an object." Regulus held up the silver needle. "From a match to a needle. But in this process, what exactly are we changing?
Is it the object's essential properties, or merely its outward form?
If the former, has the match truly become a needle? If the latter, how does it differ from an illusion?"
The classroom went silent. Even students still wrestling with their matches looked up.
McGonagall's expression sharpened with focus. She studied Regulus for several seconds, then spoke deliberately: "That is a question usually reserved for upper-year students, Mister Black."
"But I would very much like to know the answer, Professor."
McGonagall set the needle down and returned to the front of the room, addressing the entire class.
"Mister Black has raised a profound question. The fundamental difference between Transfiguration and illusion lies in material continuity.
An illusion is an appearance conjured from nothing — it has no material basis. Transfiguration, however, guides existing matter to reorganize along a path set by the magic."
She picked up another match and tapped it with her wand — it became a feather.
"This feather," she raised it, "was once a match. Its material basis has not vanished — it has simply been rearranged. That is why true Transfiguration requires understanding the nature of matter.
You must know how wood can become the structure of a feather. You must guide the conversion process, not merely alter the appearance."
She looked at Regulus. "Does that satisfy you?"
"Partially, Professor." Regulus inclined his body slightly. "But it raises another question. If Transfiguration is simply material reorganization, then what about the Vanishing Spell?
The Vanishing Spell causes an object to disappear completely. Where does its matter go? Or is the Vanishing Spell an extreme form of Transfiguration — transforming matter into nothing?"
This time, even McGonagall fell silent.
The classroom was utterly still. Every eye was on the professor. The students did not grasp the significance of the question — they were simply waiting for her answer.
McGonagall drew a deep breath. "The Vanishing Spell is N.E.W.T.-level material, involving matter-energy conversion and interdimensional magical theory."
"Focus on the exercises at hand, Mister Black. A flawless match-to-needle transformation is commendable — five points to Slytherin."
She returned to the front and resumed instructing the rest of the class.
For the remainder of the lesson, Regulus could feel McGonagall's gaze landing on him from time to time.
Regulus stayed silent through the second half. He already knew the answer, but he had gauged that McGonagall's attitude toward him differed markedly from Slughorn's.
A matter of choosing sides.
After Transfiguration, Regulus had barely stepped out of the classroom when someone intercepted him.
Narcissa Black stood at the bend in the corridor, her golden hair nearly luminous in the sunlight.
At seventeen and in her seventh year, she already carried the poise of a mature elegance. Her deep green school robe was pressed without a single crease, the silver Slytherin badge at her collar polished to a mirror shine.
"Regulus."
"Cousin Narcissa."
"A word." She turned and led him down a secluded side passage, far from the main corridor, lit only by a few tall windows.
Narcissa stopped and faced him.
"I've already heard about last night in the common room," she said without preamble. "You humiliated the Travers boy in front of everyone."
"He brought it on himself."
"I know." Narcissa's tone carried a note of approval. "Alger Travers is a fool. His father's position at the Ministry was purchased through a marriage alliance, not earned. But that isn't the issue."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "The issue is that you revealed too much, Regulus.
Your first day. Your first night. That level of display in front of all of Slytherin — do you understand what that means?"
Regulus looked at her evenly. "It means I'm not someone to be trifled with."
"It means you've entered certain people's line of sight," Narcissa corrected. "Far sooner than you intended."
She glanced around to confirm they were alone, then continued: "At breakfast, Rabastan Lestrange — you know him, Rodolphus's younger brother —
he was asking a great many questions about you. What kind of training you received at home, how strong your magical talent is, your views on certain matters."
"Which matters?"
"You know which." Narcissa fixed him with a hard look. "The great gentleman is taking an interest in talented young wizards — pure-blood ones in particular.
Your brother's betrayal damaged the Blacks' standing in his eyes. But now you've appeared — younger, more gifted, and by all appearances, more aligned with expectations."