Sean stepped into the Slytherin common room, expecting a damp chill from its lakeside perch. To his surprise, the air was crisp and dry, magic weaving an invisible charm to banish humidity.
No sunlight pierced the cavernous space, yet the gothic arches and flickering torches crafted an elegant, if shadowy, ambiance. Sean nodded to himself—he could live with this.
The common room sprawled wide, a testament to Slytherin's pure-blood legacy. Unlike Gryffindor's shared dorms, each student here claimed a private room, compact but luxurious, tailored for solitude and pride.
Sean's own room, though smaller than the multi-bed setups of other houses, felt like a personal sanctuary. He smirked, imagining Gryffindors tripping over each other's trunks in their crowded quarters. Slytherin knew how to treat its own.
"Blaise, where's your room?" Sean called, pausing at his door, key in hand.
Blaise Zabini, ever the picture of sly confidence, scanned the corridor and pointed. "Second door on your left, mate. Pop by anytime."
"Same goes for you," Sean replied, tossing him a grin. "If the door's open, just waltz in. I'm off to unpack and crash."
"Night, then," Blaise said, sauntering off.
Sean's trunk wasn't overflowing, but it held enough to keep him busy. He sorted robes, books, and quills with methodical care, stowing them in the room's sleek cabinets.
At the desk by the window, he gazed out at the Black Lake's emerald glow, where shadowy aquatic creatures glided past.
Kulkan, his white snake, stirred in his arms. Sean gently set her on the desk, her ruby eyes glinting as she explored her new domain, tongue flicking at the air. "Get comfy," he murmured. "This is home for the next seven years."
Exhaustion hit as he flopped onto the bed, the day's chaos—Sorting Hat betrayal, point losses, and Miles' glares—swirling in his mind.
Sleep claimed him fast, Kulkan coiled contentedly nearby.
Morning light didn't reach the dungeon, but Sean woke refreshed, the lake's green glow filtering through the window.
He grabbed his books for the day's classes and found Blaise in the corridor, the two falling into step toward the Great Hall.
The hall buzzed with breakfast chatter, enchanted plates heaping with bacon, toast, and frothy milk. Draco Malfoy and his posse glowered from the Slytherin table, Draco's nose still faintly bruised from Sean's fist. Sean ignored the posturing, sharing a wry glance with Blaise as they dug in.
A fifth-year prefect led them to their first class, and Sean braced for the day ahead, determined to claw back those lost points.
Transfiguration awaited on the first floor, its classroom a short walk from the hall. Sean and Blaise slid into their seats just as Harry Potter and Ron Weasley stumbled in late, plopping down behind them.
Harry leaned forward, voice low. "Sean, you alright? Anyone giving you grief?"
Sean shook his head, touched by their concern. "I'm fine, thanks. Slytherin's not eating me alive—yet. How's Gryffindor treating you?"
Harry and Ron launched into a spirited rundown of their tower's perks—cozy fires, raucous games—tinged with pity that Sean hadn't joined them.
"You've got the guts for Gryffindor," Ron insisted. "Slytherin's full of shady types."
Sean chuckled, about to reply, when a sharp rap silenced the room. Professor Minerva McGonagall, who'd been perched as a tabby cat on the podium, transformed with a fluid shimmer into her stern self.
She strode to Harry and Ron's desk, tapping it firmly. "Gentlemen, seats. Class begins now."
Her emerald robes swished as she addressed the room, voice crisp.
"Transfiguration is among the most complex and perilous magics you'll study. Pay attention, refrain from chatter, and follow instructions precisely. Missteps will see you excused from my classroom. Understood?"
The first-years nodded, wide-eyed. McGonagall raised her wand with a flourish, and the stone floor rippled like a living stream. Vines sprouted across desks, blooming into vibrant flowers and fruit-bearing trees.
The fruits split, releasing sparrows that flitted through the room, their chirps a melodic chorus. With another wand flick, the classroom snapped back to normal, the display vanished.
"Transfiguration demands patience and precision," McGonagall said, eyeing the awestruck students.
"Even a lifetime's study may not master it. Start small, stay diligent, and you'll progress. Today, we begin with basic object transformation."
She tapped the podium, which morphed into a squealing piglet, trotting about with uncanny lifelike detail.
The class gasped—pigs, famously magic-resistant, were no easy feat. Sean's mind flashed to Gideon's notebook, its pages dense with Transfiguration theories.
Even Gideon, a prodigy, hadn't cracked animating objects by graduation. McGonagall's skill was a league apart.
Matches appeared on each desk, their tips glinting in the torchlight. "Your task," McGonagall announced, "is to transform this match into a needle. Follow my instructions, and practice for the remainder of the lesson."
Sean stared at the match, steadying his breath. At home, he'd fumbled with Transfiguration, guided only by Gideon's cryptic notes.
Those experiments—turning spoons to forks, cups to bowls—gave him a shaky foundation, but a match to a needle was new. Still, the logic felt familiar. He gripped his ebony wand, its phoenix core humming faintly, and focused.
His wand traced a precise arc, tip striking the match's head and sliding toward its tail. The wood shimmered, thinning with each pass. Its texture shifted, wood grain yielding to sleek metal. On the seventh stroke, the match gleamed silver, a perfect embroidery needle.
"Sean did it!" Ron's shout broke the room's focus, his own match stubbornly unchanged.
Heads turned, and McGonagall swept over, her eyes narrowing as she inspected the needle. She lifted it, turning it in the light, then nodded.
"Well done, Mr. Bulstrode. A flawless transformation. Five points to Slytherin."
The Gryffindors murmured, impressed, but the Slytherins—save Blaise, who clapped with a grin—stayed silent.
Draco and Miles shot venomous looks, their pride stung by Sean's success. Sean shrugged it off. He'd lost those fifty points; he'd earn them back. The rest was noise.
Class ended, and McGonagall swept out. Sean and Blaise bid Harry and Ron farewell, heading to the greenhouse for Herbology with Ravenclaw.
Sean, unprepared for the subject, watched Ravenclaws dominate with their encyclopedic knowledge. No points gained, but no ground lost either.
At lunch, Samuel, the fifth-year prefect, approached, his smile too warm for Slytherin's chill. "Heard you snagged five points in Transfiguration, Sean.
Nice start. Keep it up, and those fifty points might not haunt you all term."
Sean matched his enthusiasm, voice dry. "Thanks, Samuel. I'm on it."
Samuel excused himself, and Sean's eyes followed him, a smirk tugging his lips. Slytherin indeed—always a game beneath the surface.
He turned to Blaise, who raised a brow, catching the same vibe. They finished their meal, the day's challenges only sharpening Sean's resolve.
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