Chapter 95 — The Shape of the Question

McGonagall wrote Human Transfiguration on the board. Most of us sat straighter, making her explain that this was an introduction to the theory and that we could put our wands down. Ron laid his new one on the desk with visible disappointment.

I had not taken out the brush. I remembered the cat on McGonagall’s desk in first year, and the space it occupied becoming a woman before I properly understood what I was watching. Her warning after I asked about it had remained almost as clearly as the transformation itself.

This time the subject was on the board. I raised my hand and asked whether it included becoming an Animagus, drawing several heads towards me. McGonagall rested the chalk on its ledge before answering.

‘It includes understanding why that is not an appropriate exercise for this classroom. Since the distinction is useful, however, we shall discuss it.’ Hermione turned to a clean page, and Harry pushed his bag further beneath the desk to lean forwards.

An Animagus could become an animal and return to human form while retaining their identity, McGonagall explained. Making something resemble an animal was not the same as becoming one and knowing how to change back. I remembered Leo as a goblet and the uncomfortable wait for her to restore him, even with her standing beside me.

I asked whether you kept your magic. ‘You remain a witch or wizard, Mr Mercer,’ she said. ‘You do not acquire convenient hands for holding a wand. Nor should you assume that every spell you can perform here will remain available in a different body.’

That removed an easy possibility I had begun considering without making the subject less interesting. Hermione raised her hand to ask about Metamorphmagi, and McGonagall explained that they were born able to change their appearance. Studying harder could not give somebody that ability; Animagus transformation had to be learnt, with considerable difficulty and risk.

Ron glanced down at his notes, where I could see two words and a line through one of them. I asked how many animals an Animagus could become, making McGonagall look over her spectacles.

‘One. I suggest understanding the demands of one before planning a collection.’ I accepted the laughter as the price of the question and asked whether you could choose it. She said the form was associated with the individual, not ordered like an owl from a shop.

I had been imagining a phoenix. Fawkes’s tears had done something for me which courage, a shield and the contents of my pouch had failed to do. Remembering that warmth in my arm made the wish difficult to dismiss as entirely foolish, so I asked whether a magical creature was possible.

McGonagall said we should expect an ordinary animal form. Giving myself feathers would certainly not provide a phoenix’s abilities, she added, while Hermione wrote the point down with unnecessary firmness. Then she returned to the board and placed three words beneath the title: control, stability, reversal.

All were essential. Enthusiasm for the result supplied none, and an incomplete transformation might injure us. An unstable one could change when we could not control it; inability to return to human form was no minor error to correct after lunch. By then the laughter had stopped.

Understanding the structures we affected was part of the work, McGonagall continued, along with understanding what our magic did to them. A memorised diagram and an incantation would not make us ready. I copied the words, giving reversal more space than the other two.

Dean asked whether that was why Animagi had to register. Registration was a legal requirement which recorded their forms and distinguishing features, she explained. It was no certificate that someone had behaved sensibly throughout the process of learning.

Hermione had found seven registered names during the century, including McGonagall’s. The professor confirmed the number of registered names, and I wondered how many people had avoided the book. The number could not answer that, however attractive it was to imagine accomplished rule-breakers who had succeeded quietly.

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I asked where someone would begin. McGonagall let the silence last long enough for a quill scratching behind us to become noticeable, then suggested the work we were currently being taught. I explained that I meant the reading.

‘Then be precise about meaning the reading. No student here has permission to attempt an Animagus transformation in private.’ She looked along the desks rather than directing the whole warning at me. Anyone pursuing it seriously needed to speak to a qualified teacher before moving from theory to practice.

Pomfrey had treated the consequences of ambition overtaking preparation, and McGonagall preferred not to provide another case. My arms, legs and the rest of me were in reasonably good order that morning. Remembering how recently that had ceased to be true made the argument more effective than a threat about points.

She returned us to the introductory work. We compared changes of appearance which concealed structural changes, identifying what required checking before reversal. Nobody finished the lesson with permission to transform a classmate, but I left with three words at the top of my notes and a larger question beneath them.

Hermione was fastening her bag when I caught her outside and asked for help finding proper reading about Animagi. She stopped walking and said my name in a tone which seemed to contain an argument in advance. I pointed this out, receiving a question about whether I had heard McGonagall.

I had, which was why I asked for reading. We stepped aside to let second-years pass, and Hermione waited until they were out of earshot before asking what I intended to do afterwards. Saying that I only wanted the theory would have made the next few minutes easier.

‘I’d like to learn, eventually, if I can.’ She told me she would not help me do it secretly. I had not asked her to, but she reminded me that I asked where to begin less than a minute after McGonagall described what could go wrong.

I understood the concern without finding that it removed my interest. Hermione had helped with the paper and spells I could not make work alone, I said. She glanced at the pouch, then at my hands.

‘When the paper went wrong, we could put it down. You can’t put yourself on a table and wait until after dinner to sort out what happened.’ I looked at the hand holding my notes, aware of the difference between improving what it could do and discovering halfway through an experiment that I could no longer use it.

I asked her to help me understand what I would be agreeing to before agreeing to anything. Hermione waited a moment, then said she would help with research. There would be no preparations, including whatever practical steps came before an actual attempt, and no transformations.

I agreed. If either of us thought something unsafe, she added, we would stop to find out; her uncertainty did not become permission for me to continue. I pointed out that the same had to apply to hers, making her frown briefly before accepting the point.

We found a spare table on the way to the library. Hermione took out parchment while I sat opposite, and we wrote the terms in ordinary ink. Neither of us knew enough to make a magical contract, and I did not intend to solve one poorly understood risk by signing myself into another.

I would not begin practical preparation or transformation while we investigated the risks. References would stay with the notes, disagreements would return to evidence, and any next step needed a plan. Hermione could withdraw her help whenever she wanted; if I intended to proceed without her, I had to tell her instead of borrowing her work under false pretences.

‘That would not make proceeding sensible,’ she said, underlining the sentence. I assured her I understood and added that the rules covered work either of us did alone. She read the addition, signed and passed the quill across.

I hesitated over my name. Being told to wait irritated me most when it sounded like a polite refusal which would last forever. But Hermione had not promised to make every decision for me; she had described the help she would give and the trust I would misuse by accepting it dishonestly.

I signed. She folded the parchment round a blank reference sheet and said we would begin by finding which books were worth reading. I asked how many there were, and she promised to tell me after she looked.

By the end of the afternoon she had found enough to make me regret asking. The first article sent me to another book before the end of its opening page. The second used a word I thought I understood in a way which made the paragraph impossible, so I wrote it down and looked for a definition.

Hermione suggested leaving the rest until tomorrow. I wanted to finish that part, I told her, and she reminded me that irritation would not improve its meaning. I said I hoped the paragraph might become embarrassed and cooperate, making her smile before returning to her own work.

I read it again with the definition beside it. This time I understood the distinction the writer was making, a small achievement compared with becoming an animal but one I could explain without guessing. I put a line beneath the passage and kept the page reference with my notes.