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Chapter 4: A Point to Prove
🕑 Added 2025-09-03 18:14:48 +0000 UTCHermione looked up from her book, her eyes meeting the intelligent, unnervingly focused gaze of the silver tabby cat. It was perched on the edge of her desk, its tail giving a slow, deliberate flick. For a split second, her mind registered it as just an animal. A cat?
Then, the context clicked into place, and a jolt of recognition shot through her. No. Not a cat. Professor McGonagall.
The realization came not from some vague memory of the books she'd read in a past life, but from a sudden, powerful vibration deep within her consciousness. The mental grimoire, her secret weapon, hummed with activity. A torrent of complex magical theory, anatomical knowledge, and pure, instinctual understanding flooded her mind. It was the complete, intricate knowledge of the Animagus transformation. She could feel the mechanics of it, the way a wizard's bones could shorten and shift, the way human thoughts could be funneled into the simpler, more elegant mind of a cat. The info-dump was so massive, so dizzyingly complex, that it almost made her gasp.
A notification glowed brightly in her mind's eye.
[Spells]
Transfiguration: Animagus (Cat) (Copied/Learned)
It took every ounce of her self-control to keep her expression neutral. Outwardly, she allowed her eyes to widen for just a fraction of a second in mild surprise, but inwardly, her mind was racing. It works on sight. It actually works on sight! It can copy even the most advanced, unspoken magic just by observing it. The implications were staggering. This grimoire wasn't just a learning tool; it was a weapon of magical appropriation.
She quickly slammed down her mental shields, forcing a look of bored indifference onto her face. "Huh," she muttered to herself, pitching her voice just loud enough for magically-enhanced feline ears to hear. "Is that Mr. Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris? Did she get lost?"
With a dismissive little shrug, she looked back down at her book, pointedly ignoring the professor-in-disguise now sitting less than a foot away.
McGonagall, in her cat form, was not surprised by the lack of affection. This strange, solitary girl didn't seem the type to be interested in furry animals. The brief flicker of surprise was, she assumed, simply confusion at finding a cat in her classroom. The professor would never have imagined that her flawless, decades-perfected disguise had been utterly compromised in an instant.
Still, her curiosity was piqued. She padded closer, her movements silent and graceful, and peered down at the open book on the desk. Her very human-like confusion was visible in the slight tilt of her feline head. Hogwarts: A History? While the book was required reading, most first-years, especially the brilliant ones, were far more interested in practical spellbooks or potion ingredients. They wanted to do magic, not read about its dusty origins. What an interesting, peculiar child, McGonagall thought.
Seeing that Hermione was completely absorbed in her reading, the cat-professor left her be, leaping silently onto the podium and settling into a watchful, loaf-like position as the rest of the students filed in and the classroom bell rang.
A quiet, studious hush fell over the room, broken only by the scratching of quills on parchment as students prepared for the lesson. Then, the door burst open with a loud bang.
Harry and Ron stumbled into the classroom, panting and disheveled. Seeing no professor, only a calm-looking cat on the desk, they both let out an audible sigh of relief.
"Phew, we made it," Ron whispered loudly, his voice echoing in the silent room. "Can you imagine McGonagall's face if she caught us being late? Terrifying!"
The other students stared, a mixture of secondhand embarrassment and pity on their faces. Even Draco Malfoy, from across the room, gave a theatrical roll of his eyes.
The next second, in a movement that defied physics, the cat on the podium launched itself into the air. Mid-flight, its form began to ripple and stretch, fur receding into emerald-green robes, its spine lengthening, its limbs elongating into those of a tall, severe-looking woman. She landed silently on two feet, not a single hair out of place, her stern gaze already fixed on the two horrified latecomers.
A collective gasp went through the classroom. Ron and Harry were frozen, their faces pale with shock and dawning horror. Only Hermione remained completely calm, as if she were merely watching a mildly interesting bit of theater.
"That… was brilliant," Ron stammered, the awe in his voice warring with the sheer terror on his face.
"Thank you for that assessment, Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall said, her voice dangerously devoid of any emotion. "Perhaps I should transfigure you and Mr. Potter into a pocket watch. That way, at least one of you might be on time."
"We were lost," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Then perhaps a map," she retorted instantly. "Now, go sit down."
Looking as though they'd just been granted a stay of execution, the two boys scurried away and, seeing the empty seats in the back corner, made a beeline for Hermione. They slid onto the bench beside her, their relief palpable. She didn't even raise her head from her book.
The rest of the class was a masterclass in Transfiguration theory. McGonagall lectured on its various branches—summoning, vanishing, cross-species transformation, and the incredibly difficult art of the Animagus—her voice sharp and commanding. To demonstrate a basic principle, she tapped her desk with her wand, turning it into a grunting, hairy pig, and then back into a desk again with another flick. The class erupted in gasps and applause.
When the bell finally rang, the students poured out into the hallway, buzzing with excitement.
"Did you see that? Her desk turned into a pig!" Ron exclaimed, his earlier terror completely forgotten.
Harry was just as thrilled. This was real magic, more incredible than anything he could have imagined. He glanced over at Hermione, who was packing her bag with the same calm, detached expression she always wore.
"Hermione, wasn't that amazing?" he asked, genuinely curious. "How are you not freaking out right now?"
He couldn't understand her. She was their age, a Muggle-born, yet she acted as if this was all perfectly normal. "Are you sure you're not from a wizarding family?"
Hermione finally looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. "No. My parents are both Muggles."
Ron's face fell. He, a pure-blood wizard, was acting like a slack-jawed tourist, while this girl, who had supposedly never seen magic before, was acting like she'd seen it all.
"Hmm," Hermione mused, pausing for a moment. "It was very impressive, yes. A masterful display of the art. But once you understand the principles behind it, it's actually quite simple."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look of disbelief.
"You say that as if you could do it," Ron challenged, his pride stung by her casual dismissal of something so miraculous.
Hermione met his gaze and gave a simple, confident nod. "Yes. I can."
The two boys just stared, dumbfounded. Ron had just been trying to knock her down a peg; he never expected her to so calmly call his bluff. He was left sputtering. Even Harry looked deeply skeptical.
Hermione saw their doubt and a slow, mischievous smile spread across her face. It was the first time they had ever seen her look anything but cold or serious. "What will you do if I prove it?"
Ron, feeling backed into a corner, puffed out his chest. "Fine! If you can do it, I'll… I'll eat Harry's quill! How about that?"
Harry shot him a look of utter betrayal. "Hey! Leave my quill out of this!"
"Deal," Hermione said, her smile widening. She pulled out her wand and pointed it at the magnificent eagle-feather quill in Harry's hand. She spoke the incantation with a crisp, clear confidence that was worlds away from the hesitant muttering of the other first-years. "Vera Verto."
A silvery light shimmered at the tip of her wand. Before their astonished eyes, the quill began to transform. The elegant feathers softened and clumped together, turning into fine, brown fur. The sharp shaft thickened and grew four tiny, scrabbling legs and a long, pink tail. The ink-stained nib shrank and sharpened into a twitching, whiskered nose. In seconds, it was no longer a quill, but a small, perfectly formed field mouse.
The mouse blinked its beady black eyes, squeaked, and then leaped from Harry's stunned grasp. It scurried across the stone floor and, in a flash, climbed right up Ron's robes, perching on his shoulder.
Ron was frozen solid, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. His mouth was so wide open you could have fit a whole egg inside.
Hermione's smirk turned predatory. She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with amusement, and uttered a single, devastating word.
"Eat."
