On the way, Peeves the poltergeist lurked around a corner, ready to pounce. But Harry’s "Clairvoyance" gave him ample warning. With a quick activation of his "Somebody Else’s Problem Field (SEP Field)," he walked past the ghost unnoticed. Peeves hovered in place, scratching his head and muttering to himself.
When Harry arrived at the classroom, a handful of students were already inside. His entrance drew the usual glances, and even the tabby cat perched on the professor’s desk fixed him with an unblinking stare. The cat’s green eyes were too sharp, too aware. Harry’s mind clicked—Animagus. This was Transfiguration class, after all. The cat had to be Professor McGonagall.
He didn’t say a word, already drawing enough attention without adding to it. Instead, he took a seat in the middle of the front row, his face calm and composed. As he settled in, he activated "Look at Me, I See You," letting the ability quietly gather information from the students and, hopefully, the professor. With "Matryoshka Mind" handling the data, there was no risk of overload. His thoughts were orderly, a library where every detail had its place, ready to be retrieved at will.
The Transfiguration classroom buzzed with quiet tension as Professor McGonagall began her lecture. Harry listened intently, quickly realizing the textbooks had been stripped of crucial details. Transfiguration wasn’t like other magic. It was volatile, its rules vague, its consequences severe. A single misstep could lead to disaster. McGonagall drove this point home, her tone sharp and unyielding, warning the class against unsupervised experimentation.
After laying out the theory, she handed each student a matchstick. “Today,” she said, her voice cutting through the room, “you will attempt to transfigure this match into a needle. The incantation is "Acusignis". The wand movement is minimal, but your focus must be absolute. This is a beginner’s exercise, designed to introduce you to the principles of Transfiguration.”
Harry watched as Hermione, a few seats away, was the first to make progress. Her matchstick shimmered, one end turning metallic while the other remained stubbornly wooden. After a few tries, she produced a crude but recognizable needle. Harry wasn’t far behind. With his "Superior Understanding," the theory clicked into place, and within moments, his matchstick transformed into a slender, silver needle. A blonde Slytherin girl—Harry didn’t know her name—also managed a partial transformation, though hers was rougher, less refined.
By the end of the class, only the three of them had achieved noticeable results. McGonagall gave a rare nod of approval, though her expression stayed stern. “Transfiguration demands precision, patience, and practice,” she said, scanning the room. “Do not be discouraged if you did not succeed today. Mastery comes with time.”
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After Transfiguration, Harry had a free period until the afternoon, when Defense Against the Dark Arts (DADA) was scheduled. He was looking forward to the class, though not because he found the subject particularly interesting. No, his interest lay in Professor Quirrell. The searing pain in his scar during the feast had left him deeply unsettled, and he was determined to uncover the man’s true intentions.
As he left the classroom, Harry checked the information his "Look at Me, I See You" ability had gathered about Professor McGonagall.
The words sharpened into focus, each line settling heavily in his mind. A Transfiguration master. A widow. A woman who had seen war steal away her husband. Someone who had thought highly of his parents—James, the talented troublemaker; Lily, the brilliant witch. Gryffindor’s fiercest competitor, hungry for the House and Quidditch Cups.
Then, a line that made his breath hitch.
She had been one of the people who left him on the Dursleys' doorstep.
Harry stopped mid-step. A cold weight coiled in his chest, tightening with each beat of his heart. His fingers curled into fists. He reread the words as if willing them to change, to be some mistake. But they didn’t waver. The truth stood there, stark and unmoving.
A bitter taste spread in his mouth. His pulse pounded in his ears. Images of his childhood—the cupboard, the hunger, the loneliness—flashed behind his eyes. The weight of it pressed down on him, hot and suffocating. He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching.
A dozen questions surged to the surface, sharp and demanding. Why? Why had she left him there? Why had no one checked? Why had they abandoned him to people who barely tolerated his existence?
His grip tightened. He wanted to turn around, to march back and ask—no, demand—answers.
He spent the next hour in the Gryffindor common room, staring listlessly at the fire in the hearth. His thoughts were a whirlwind of anger, confusion, and hurt. It wasn’t until Hermione approached him that he snapped out of his daze.
“Harry?” Hermione’s voice cut through the flickering glow of the common room fire. “Why are you staring like that? Lunch has already started.”
The flames blurred as Harry blinked, shaking off the weight of his thoughts. His fingers twitched against his robes, gripping at nothing. “I just… remembered some things,” he said, his voice carefully neutral.
Hermione’s brow creased, her lips parting slightly as if she might press further—but after a beat, she simply sighed. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
The warmth of the fire clung to his back as they stepped out of the common room, but it did nothing to chase away the cold knot in his stomach.
On the way to the Great Hall, he veered the conversation toward safer ground. “Did Hogwarts turn out the way you expected?”
Hermione’s face lit up, the shadow of concern melting away. “It’s even more magical than I imagined,” she said, eyes bright. “But I didn’t think magic would be so… theoretical. I thought we’d be learning more spells right away.”
Harry gave a small nod, letting her enthusiasm fill the space where his own thoughts threatened to resurface. “Same. There’s a lot more to it than I expected.”
The words flowed easily, the conversation pulling him forward, step by step. But beneath it all, the bitterness clung to him like a whisper he couldn’t shake. There was still too much left unanswered. And in the afternoon, Defense Against the Dark Arts would bring him face-to-face with at least one of those mysteries.
One way or another, he’d find out the truth.
So, I repeat my question: who is the most obsessed with Harry Potter?