Chapter 565: Focus on a Single Point
November.
Snow had finally arrived in the Scottish Highlands. Thick, leaden flakes swirled
through the sky, blanketing every window and leaving the castle much darker
during the day than usual.
"Excellent," Dumbledore said, looking at the young wizard before him. "Your
first private lesson shall begin now."
Sean stopped feeding Fawkes and took a seat, waiting for the Headmaster to set
down his steaming violet teacup.
"Transfiguration—or rather, magic itself. Where do you believe it truly
originates?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling. He shifted slightly, his
plum-colored robes rustling against the stone floor. "If you can, answer me in a
single sentence."
"A wizard's believing heart," Sean replied without hesitation.
"A fine answer, but not yet an exceptional one," Dumbledore said meaningfully.
He raised a hand, and a book flew from a shelf near Fawkes's perch. Sean saw
that Dumbledore had opened a copy of The Wizarding Magical Annals.
"'Wizards build an Order deep within their souls; thus, the power of belief
finds its foundation...'" Dumbledore recited the passage with a light, rhythmic
tone. "This is the finest explanation I have heard in a century, Sean. For a
student seeking to pass his exams, it is more than enough. But for a wizard who
seeks to grasp the stars... it is merely the start."
The book snapped shut. A jet-black wand, its surface marked by knobbly,
bone-like protrusions, flew into Dumbledore's hand. Noticing Sean's unblinking
stare, the Headmaster allowed himself a small joke.
"The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder Wand... call it what you
will. Many have hungered for it over the centuries. I had not realized you were
among them."
He tossed the wand across the desk. Sean caught it, and a sudden shiver ran
through his entire body.
Then, something strange happened.
The moment Sean gripped the wand, he felt a surge of instinctive, visceral
revulsion. He couldn't tell if it was the Ravenclaw in him, or something deeper.
He looked down at his own wand—Elder wood and Phoenix feather—resting in his
belt.
"Ah... it seems your own wand does not care for the competition," Dumbledore
noted cheerfully. "It appears that if you wish to claim the Elder Wand, you'll
have to deal with more than just me. But that is not our focus today."
The Elder Wand flew back to Dumbledore's hand. He pointed it toward the window.
Outside, a stray Kneazle was darting across the lawn, leaving a shallow trail in
the powdered snow. Its whiskers were frosted with ice. Higher up, the Forbidden
Forest looked as though it had been silver-plated.
Suddenly, the Kneazle took flight.
It soared higher and higher, flying through the window (which had momentarily
transformed into an open archway) and past Sean's ear. Mid-air, it shifted into
a magnificent, roaring fire-dragon. The dragon exhaled a gout of flame, which
then dissolved into a thousand multicolored sequins. With a final POP, the
sequins exploded into a shower of festive ribbons in front of Sean.
Sean's eyes widened. Even with his advanced knowledge, he couldn't begin to
categorize the layers of Transfiguration used in that sequence.
"I've always wanted to try that," Dumbledore chuckled, patting the Kneazle's
head. The creature had returned to its original form and was currently biting
Dumbledore's finger in a fit of pique before scurrying behind Sean for
protection.
"Mmm... it seems he prefers you to me," Dumbledore noted dryly.
"Is that... what you are going to teach me, sir?" Sean asked, unable to hide his
excitement.
"No," Dumbledore replied, his smile widening.
Sean's face fell.
"But it is what you are going to learn," Dumbledore added, his expression
turning serious. "Minerva tells me you have mastered a new magic?"
Sean raised his wand. "By the wizard's will—Element Vitalization."
Within minutes, the Headmaster's office was transformed. Fawkes's perch became a
nest woven from rare magical herbs; the bookshelves turned into a row of wooden
sentinels; and even the teacups became porcelain soldiers patrolling the desk.
[You have gained the favor of the magical creature: Phoenix (Fawkes). Affinity
+10] [Fawkes the Phoenix: Slightly Friendly (Novice) (99/300)]
Sean blinked. An unexpected bonus.
"Splendid," Dumbledore said, giving a polite clap. "But far too reckless."
Sean sat back, feeling the familiar "drain" of the high-level spell. He listened
intently as the Headmaster spoke.
"As we discussed, magic comes from belief. But the gap between summoning magic
and mastering it... well, they are not the same thing. The terror of the Dark
Arts lies in the need for 'excessive' power—power that is out of control.
Wizards imbue the dark with their most cruel fantasies: controlling the dead,
dealing death, or incinerating the world."
Sean nodded. He recognized the shadows of the Inferi, the Killing Curse, and
Fiendfyre in those descriptions.
"But Transfiguration," Dumbledore continued, tapping his fingers against the
desk, "is the art of absolute control. What is the first thing a wizard must
master?"
"The Order of belief," Sean mused.
Dumbledore's eyes shone with pride. "Go on."
"If the power of Transfiguration comes from a wizard's absolute command over
reality... then the first step must be controlling the power of the soul's
order. It isn't enough to simply believe magic will happen. A wizard must
believe in the specifics of the change. For example..."
Sean's words began to tumble out faster as the realization took hold. "A wizard
must believe in the duration of the change. He must believe in the limit of the
change."
Sean stood up, energized. The principle was so simple, yet he had missed it for
months.
Magic possessed infinite potential, but a human wizard had a finite capacity to
channel it. By placing a "boundary" on his belief—limiting the time and the
physical range—he could act as a valve. Instead of a wild, surging flood that
wasted energy, the magic became a pressurized jet of water.
He termed it: "Concentrate on one point, reach the summit."
"Our lesson ends here for today," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair. "For
your next step, I want you to apply this constraint..."
He glanced at the exhausted young wizard. The meaning was clear: Stop draining
your reserves to zero every time you cast.
"I understand," Sean whispered. He felt a flush of embarrassment. He had assumed
his fatigue was just a biological limit; he hadn't realized it was a failure of
technique.
"The library has some fascinating volumes that might assist you," Dumbledore
added with a wink. "The Roots of Transfiguration and The Manual of Metamorphosis
both align quite well with your own notes. On that note, I'm glad you chose to
study my personal journals."
Sean's eyes brightened. He had been pouring over Dumbledore's notes for a long
time, but their density had always slowed him down. With the author himself as a
guide, the path ahead looked clear.
"May I try it now?" Sean asked. He knew the lesson was over, but he was
desperate to test the theory.
"Of course. Though we do have a welcome dinner for Professor Slughorn in a few
hours. He specifically requested our 'Assistant' be present."
Sean gave a distracted nod. He took a deep breath.
"By the wizard's will—Element Vitalization."
The office shifted once more. The walls rippled, the floorboards flexed, and the
hearth itself seemed to hop forward. Sean focused entirely on a ten-second
duration and a small, fixed area of space.
[You have practiced a Special Transfiguration (Element Vitalization) at an
Expert level. Matter Transfiguration +50, Magical Transfiguration +50]
Success!
Sean could feel the difference. In the past, he had been like a switch, merely
turning the flow on or off. Now, he was the conductor, directing every ripple
and wave of the magical current. For the first time, his system recognized an
[Expert] standard in his practice.
"Oh..." Dumbledore murmured. Even he was taken aback by the speed of Sean's
comprehension. It was a level of talent that nearly rivaled his own at that age.
The technique was notoriously difficult. For most wizards, simply manifesting a
complex Transfiguration was the limit of their ability. Adding absolute mastery
over the internal "circuits" of the spell was an exponential increase in
difficulty.
"Rest a while," Dumbledore smiled. "The feast awaits."
Evening fell over the castle. Sean followed Dumbledore down to the Great Hall,
where a long table for thirteen had been set at the High Table.
Nearly the entire faculty was present. Even Professor Binns was there, hovering
over a chair in a way that made the students wonder if he might actually fall
through it. Snape sat with a stony expression, while Professor McGonagall and
Professor Terra were chatting and laughing.
Flitwick, Sprout, and Sinistra were huddled together, sharing a platter of
sweets. Charity Burbage and Bathsheda Babbling sat together, clearly close
friends. Hagrid was there too, occupying a space that could have easily sat
three people. Even Madam Hooch had arrived, looking exhausted from a week of
Quidditch prep.
"Good to see you out and about, child," Professor Sprout said, winking at Sean
as he took his seat.
"Good evening, Professor Sprout," Sean replied.
Suddenly, the Great Hall doors swung open. Professor Trelawney glided in,
looking more like a giant, sequined dragonfly than ever in her metallic green
dress.
"Sybill! What a pleasant surprise!" Dumbledore called out.
"I was consulting the Crystal Orb, Headmaster," Trelawney whispered in her most
ethereal voice. "To my shock, I saw myself abandoning my solitary meal to join
this gathering. How could I refuse the promptings of Fate? Forgive my
lateness..."
"Think nothing of it," Dumbledore said, his eyes gleaming. "I'll get you a
chair—"
He waved his wand, and a chair materialized from thin air. it spun for several
seconds before dropping with a THUD between Snape and McGonagall.
Trelawney didn't sit. She stared at the table, her eyes wide behind her thick
lenses. Suddenly, she let out a low shriek.
"I dare not, Headmaster! If I sit, there will be thirteen of us! It is most
unlucky! Never forget: when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be
the first to die!"
"There are fourteen of us, Sybill," McGonagall said irritably. "Do sit down. The
roast chicken is already turning to stone."
Trelawney hesitated, glancing nervously at Professor Binns before settling into
her chair. She closed her eyes tight, as if waiting for a lightning bolt to
strike the table.
McGonagall began ladling soup into a bowl. "And where is our guest of honor?"
"You surely must know who it is already, Sybill?" McGonagall asked, raising an
eyebrow.
Trelawney shot her a cold look. "Naturally, Minerva," she said loftily. "But I
do not care to flaunt my omniscience. I often pretend to be in the dark, lest I
make the common folk nervous."
"That explains a great deal," McGonagall noted dryly.
Trelawney's voice suddenly lost its dreamlike quality. "I see..."
Before she could finish, a portly figure appeared in the doorway. He wore a
plush velvet suit and possessed a magnificent bald head and a set of silver
walrus-whiskers.
The faculty turned to greet their new Potions Master: Horace Slughorn.
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