HP: Ashborn

In an Abandoned Hogwarts Classroom

"What exactly am I doing wrong here?!" came a voice tinged with frustration, her eyes fixed on the crime scene of Transfiguration before us—a lump of cotton that still retained suspiciously metallic features, including what I was fairly certain was a rusted screw sticking out of the side.

I exhaled, rubbing my temple. How does one even manage that?

"You tell me! Walk me through your thought process," I prompted, crossing my arms.

"Okay... I did everything right," she insisted, before launching into a rapid-fire explanation of her mental approach.

Her hands flailed as she described every step she had envisioned for the transformation, her tone somewhere between exasperated and desperate—like a student trying to convince a professor their completely blank essay had once been fully written before an unfortunate accident involving a rogue Niffler.

For the past three hours, I had been doing my best to teach her. Three. Whole. Hours. In theory, she was faster than me—her mind grasped concepts like a Ravenclaw on a caffeine high. But when it came to the practical side? Well... let's just say her results belonged in a "What Not to Do in Transfiguration" textbook.

Transfiguration isn't just about waving a wand and hoping for the best. It demands careful consideration of multiple factors: mass, size, complexity of the object and its target form, magical resistance, willpower, magical power, concentration, intent, and—most importantly—not creating something that looked like a failed attempt at modern art.

I eyed the cotton-iron hybrid again. "You know, at this point, I half-expect it to start talking and demand legal rights as a new species."

She groaned, throwing up her hands. "Oh, shut up and just tell me what I'm doing wrong!"

I smirked. "I would, but honestly, I'm kind of impressed. I think you just invented Iron Cotton. Maybe submit it to the Ministry as the next great magical discovery?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny."

"Your thought process is solid," I reassured her, "but this transformation requires a lot of changes at once. This time, do it slowly. Close your eyes, list out every factor you need to modify, visualize those changes happening, and then channel your magic into making them real—all at once."

She took a deep breath, determination flickering in her eyes, and tried again—this time, deliberately slow. As she thought out loud, carefully listing each transformation factor, I could sense the subtle shift in her magic. Then, with a controlled wave of her wand, she released her magic towards the iron… and something different happened.

Success. The iron was gone. In its place lay a perfectly transfigured piece of cotton.

I gave a small nod of approval. "Not bad."

The difficulty of keeping track of all these factors increases with more complex transformations. I had a slight advantage thanks to both talent and a bit of Occlumency, which made the mental organization sharper. She, however, would need to develop the same precision through practice. But if this was any indication, she was on the right track.

Seeing the successfully transfigured cotton, I couldn't help but smile. She had done it—finally! The sheer joy on her face was undeniable, and before I knew it, she was jumping around in childish excitement. Not that I could blame her; if I had cracked a problem that had been tormenting me for the past three hours, I'd probably be doing the same.

Noticing the time—6:30 PM—I decided it was best to call it a day.

"I think it's time we wrap this up," I said, stretching my arms. "We've been at this for three and a half hours, and I doubt you want to show anything less than your best to the professors tomorrow."

"Yeah," she sighed, traces of exhaustion creeping into her voice. "It's almost dinner time. Let's go—I think I could eat an entire meat pot tonight."

I was just about to throw a snarky comment at that—probably something about her developing an Animagus form as a starving Panda—when a sudden, loud noise tore through the corridor.

I immediately forgot whatever witty remark had been forming in my mind. This wasn't just any noise—it had a certain chaotic quality to it, the kind that promised trouble.

Jasmine and I exchanged glances.

Taking a look couldn't hurt… right?

We stepped out of the classroom to find the corridor packed with students. Some were laughing, some were sniggering, and others simply looked on with mild curiosity. Whatever had happened, it had everyone's attention.

And at the very center of it all?

My four roommates—Jordan, Towler, and the Weasley twins—completely drenched in water. But this wasn't just normal water. No, judging by the way they were scratching themselves like deranged monkeys, this was something far worse.

"Well," I muttered under my breath, "looks like karma's got a sense of humor today."

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a pair of hazel eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Next to them, a boy—her apparent accomplice—was subtly slipping away from the scene, hand-in-hand with her.

By now, I had a decent understanding of what had just transpired. With that knowledge, I did the most logical thing—moved away from the crowd before I got dragged into whatever madness had unfolded.

I followed them. Jasmine followed without question.

Some mysteries weren't meant to be solved. They were meant to be confronted.

Once we reached a quieter part of the corridor, I spoke in a low voice.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

The pair stopped in their tracks. Everleigh turned around, a mischievous smile playing on her lips, but her accomplice… well, he had a very different reaction. His posture tensed, his gaze sharpening into something cold and guarded, like a wolf ready to pounce.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Ashborn," Everleigh said smoothly.

Oh, so that's how we're playing this.

Another thing to notice—the moment she spoke, her fiancé's stance relaxed. The sharp glare faded into something more calculating, his posture shifting ever so slightly. That was all he needed to hear. He knew now that I wasn't here to pick a fight.

If anything, he must have been told that I had once helped Everleigh when she was dealing with Gryffindor troublemakers.

His entire demeanour shifted—one second a guard dog ready to strike, the next, he was studying me with something closer to curiosity.

I glanced at the guy beside her, who suddenly said, "Oh, so you're the guy."

Everleigh turned to him with an almost teasing smile. "Yes, he's the one who calls himself the 'Lone Lion,' Tavy."

Ah, Tavy, was it? He didn't look particularly pleased with the nickname, but Everleigh ignored him, turning back to me with a surprisingly sweet smile.

"I still don't know what gave you the idea that I was responsible for… whatever happened back there."

I scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Do not take me for a fool, Everleigh. Unlike most of my housemates, I do have a brain— and I use it." I crossed my arms, watching her closely while pointing at her (in Gordon Ramsay's style). "You might think you masked your expressions well, but your evil little smile and that mischievous glint in your eyes gave you away. It certainly didn't help that you grabbed your fiancé's hand and casually slipped out of the crowd right after the 'mission' was accomplished."

Everleigh's expression flickered—just for a moment.

Jasmine, who had been quiet up until now, finally noticed the matching rings on their fingers. Her eyes widened slightly, but before she could comment, Tavy—the so-called fiancé—spoke up.

"Now I see why you said he's different, Lily. A Gryffindor who observes, thinks, and actually uses his brain? That's unheard of." He smirked. "No offense, but that's the statistics speaking."

"None taken," I answered smoothly.

"But even if—hypothetically speaking—it was us, not that you have any proof," Tavy continued smoothly, "what exactly are you going to do about it?"

I chuckled. "Huh. What a Slytherin way to talk." Then I shrugged. "But to answer your question? Absolutely nothing."

That caught them off guard.

"Nothing?" Everleigh and her fiancé echoed at the same time, both raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Why should I care about what happens to people I barely know?" I replied nonchalantly. "What I do care about, however, are the consequences of what you've done."

Jasmine finally spoke up from beside me. "Why do you care about the consequences of what they have done, Max?"

I sighed, already anticipating the chaos that would unfold. "Because now those Gryffindors will plan a retaliation for your retaliation. But being Gryffindors, they won't be smart about it. They won't go after you specifically. No, they'll just take it out on any Slytherin they can find."

Everleigh giggled, clearly amused. Tavy, on the other hand, had a knowing grin on his face. Jasmine simply raised an eyebrow.

"I think you're forgetting something, Max," she said. "You're also a Gryffindor."

I smirked. "And I also believe that I am not a normal Gryffindor."

"That... may be true," she muttered under her breath.

"Anyway, as I was saying—this back-and-forth will escalate. Gryffindors will attack any Slytherin they find, and then Slytherins will retaliate against any Gryffindor they can find. Meaning... I will also become a target." I turned back to Everleigh. "And, unfortunately for you, so will you. Now, do you see the problem?"

My little rant seemed to put everyone around me into deep thought. By now, they had also realized that their little stunt had the potential to topple the already non-existent delicate balance between the houses.

"I see. Certainly, didn't think of that," her fiancé admitted. "And as much as I want to deny it, you're right, Ashborn. I need to do something about it."

"But you need not worry. Since you once helped Lily here, I give you my word as Heir to Montrose that no Slytherin will target you."

"Appreciated," I replied with a nod. "Though I believe we haven't been properly introduced. Maximus Ashborn, Heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Ashborn." I extended my hand in a proper pureblood manner.

He grasped it firmly, giving a respectful shake. "Octavius Montrose, Heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Montrose. Second-year Slytherin… and fiancé of Lilian Everleigh here."

(AN: House Ranks in this world

1. Most Ancient and Most Noble Houses like Gryffindor, Slytherin, Blacks, Potters

2. Ancient And Most Noble House like Notts, Abotts.

3. Most Noble Houses like Malfoys) 

He glanced at Everleigh, whose face had suddenly turned an interesting shade of pink as she looked down, clearly flustered.

Huh. Noted.

"Well then, Mr. Montrose, I hope we can cooperate in the future."

"I certainly hope so, Ashborn. You're one of the sane and intelligent Gryffindors I've met. I trust you won't let the dorks around you influence that."

"You don't need to worry about that, Mr. Montrose," I assured him.

"Good. Well, I believe it's time for dinner. We'll continue our talks another time."

With that, I left with Jasmine, making our way toward the Great Hall. Unfortunately for me, I had to eat at the Gryffindor table.

To my surprise, my housemates were... quiet. Which, frankly, was something I never expected to witness in my lifetime. But what was even more alarming was the seething fury in their eyes—like someone had just murdered their entire families.

Of course, I wasn't about to let their collective rage ruin my appetite. I simply ate my meal, ignored the glaring, and promptly left before I got dragged into any brain-melting drama.

The rest of the night was uneventful—just some Occlumency exercises and potion reading before finally turning in at 11:30.

September 4th, 1989—without a doubt, a day truly worthy of being called magical. Why? Because today marks the official start of our journey into the world of magic.

I woke up early, completed my morning exercises (because a strong body supports a strong mind—or at least, that's what I tell myself), packed my bag, and made sure to do everything a responsible student should before their first class. By 8:30 AM, I had made my way to the Great Hall.

That's when Charles Weasley, ever the dutiful prefect, went around handing out timetables to every first-year Gryffindor.

One glance at the schedule, and I was already questioning the sanity of whoever designed it:

Monday: Transfiguration, Charms X2, Lunch, Potions X2

Tuesday: Charms, History of Magic, DADA, Lunch, Herbology X2

Wednesday: History of Magic, Transfiguration X2, Lunch, DADA X2, Astronomy (at midnight? Seriously?)

Thursday: History of Magic X2, Transfiguration, Lunch, DADA, Flying (From Second Week)

Friday: Potions X2, Charms, Lunch, Herbology X2

Transfiguration, Charms, and Astronomy with Ravenclaws

Potions, DADA, and Flying with Slytherins (Oh joy…)

Herbology and History with Hufflepuffs

I stared at the schedule in mild disbelief.

Whoever designed this timetable was definitely a sadist.

I mean, seriously—who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to pair Potions (which requires patience), DADA (which involves fighting tactics and spell work), and Flying (which is basically an excuse for competitive mayhem) between houses that can barely go an hour without trying to hex each other?

Sighing, I tucked the schedule away and focused on my breakfast, eating at a steady pace while making eye contact with Jasmine, who had just checked her own timetable. She gave me a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to her meal.

With that settled, we made our way to the Transfiguration classroom, arriving at exactly 9:01 AM. The room was completely empty.

A few minutes later, a tabby cat strolled in, walking with the kind of confidence that practically screamed, this place belongs to me. It leaped gracefully onto the professor's desk and sat there, observing us with sharp, intelligent eyes.

I casually raised a hand and greeted, "Good morning, Professor."

Jasmine nearly choked on thin air.

The cat—who, of course, was Professor McGonagall—widened her eyes slightly before quickly regaining her composure.

Jasmine whispered harshly, "You knew that Professor was an Animagus?" Her eyes narrowed sharply.

"Obviously," I replied, entirely unfazed. "I told you, remember? I researched Hogwarts—including its professors."

She muttered something under her breath, but before she could argue further, the classroom began filling up as students arrived one by one. By now, Jasmine and I were already seated at the second-row bench, a Transfiguration book open in front of us.

At exactly 9:03 AM, with all students—including the ever-troublesome Weasley twins—present, the tabby cat perched on the desk suddenly leaped into the air. Mid-jump, its form twisted and shifted, fur giving way to fabric, paws elongating into hands, until, in a seamless transformation, Professor McGonagall stood before us, her expression as composed as ever.

The room erupted in a chorus of "Whoa!" and "That was amazing!"

McGonagall barely suppressed a smirk. "Five points to Gryffindor for recognizing that I was an Animagus," she said with a satisfied smile.

Cue the entire class turning to look at me like I had just sprouted a second head.

Jasmine, meanwhile, grumbled under her breath, "I knew that too..."

I resisted the urge to laugh.

Unbothered, Professor McGonagall continued with the lesson. With a single elegant flick of her wand, her desk warped and twisted, reshaping itself into a plump, pink pig that oinked in mild confusion. The class gasped in amazement—except for the Weasley twins, who whispered to each other, likely plotting some future prank.

McGonagall ignored them and launched into her introduction to Transfiguration, emphasizing the complexity, precision, and dangers of the subject. With her usual firm but fair tone, she explained the fundamental principles, detailing the intricate manipulation of mass, intent, and magical energy required to reshape an object.

I listened politely, but I couldn't help but feel a little detached—I already knew all this. In fact, I had already taught Jasmine these concepts the day before.

Then came the practical exercise: transfiguring a matchstick into a needle.

I wasn't particularly interested in it. But apparently, Jasmine was.

The matchsticks had barely been passed out when—five seconds in—Jasmine's matchstick was already a perfect silver needle.

The class collectively dropped their jaws.

Professor McGonagall, clearly impressed, awarded her 15 points for her effort.

Jasmine, ever the overachiever, turned her attention to me. I was holding my wand, making no attempt to transfigure the matchstick. She nudged my elbow and gave me a pointed look, silently urging me to at least try.

I, being thoroughly uninterested, did not comply.

Jasmine's eye twitched.

Then, in an act of pure betrayal, she cast a quick glance at Professor McGonagall, subtly calling for reinforcements.

She thought I wouldn't notice.

I did.

I turned and glared at my redhead friend; my expression full of silent accusation. Et tu, Jasmine?

Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall, sharp as ever, had already caught on. She directed a firm stare at me—one that clearly meant:

'Transfigure it. Now.'

I, in my infinite wisdom, chose to not meet her gaze.

If I ignored it, it didn't count, right?

Wrong.

Finally, after what I assumed was McGonagall's last ounce of patience running dry, she spoke—loudly, for everyone to hear.

"It appears that the transfiguration you performed in front of me the day before yesterday was merely a fluke, Mr. Ashborn. Well, these things do happen from time to time. Do keep trying, and make sure that the fluke you performed happens again—every time."

It was a simple statement.

But it landed a critical hit.

Jasmine let out the loudest giggle I had ever heard.

The class turned to watch, curiosity and amusement lighting their faces.

And worst of all?

My pride took a severe beating.

I glared at McGonagall.

She merely smiled.

A silent challenge. What will you do?

I knew it was a trap.

I knew I was walking straight into it.

But my pride left me no choice.

With an exasperated sigh, I picked up the damned matchstick and effortlessly transfigured it into a perfect silver needle.

Then, just for good measure—and to reclaim my dignity—I grabbed another matchstick, transfigured it into a red-and-gold Gryffindor-themed needle, and elegantly engraved 'Ashborn' onto it in perfect calligraphy.

The reaction was instant.

More heads turned.

Jasmine outright laughed.

McGonagall, clearly pleased, examined my needle and awarded me 10 points for a successful transfiguration—plus 10 more for creativity.

And just like that, my simple plan of living a quiet life at Hogwarts vanished into thin air.

The lesson wrapped up with more than half the class managing to transfigure their matchsticks into silver needles—though, if I do say so myself, none with quite the same level of finesse as mine.

After class, instead of rushing to Charms like the rest of my peers, I approached Professor McGonagall with a few lingering curiosities from my self-study—mainly about transfiguring living creatures and animation charms.

You know, the sort of things that could either revolutionize magic or get me detention for 'reckless experimentation.'

To my surprise, my questions momentarily caught her off guard.

Then, in an unexpected turn of events, a rare smile flickered across her face—clearly pleased (and perhaps a little impressed) with my line of inquiry.

She answered patiently, her explanations illuminating, though I had far more questions than time permitted.

With a nod, she finally said, "Go to Charms class for now, Mr. Ashborn. You may visit my office later to continue this discussion."

That sounded suspiciously like an open invitation to discuss advanced concepts of transfiguration.

I wasn't about to turn that down.

I thanked her and headed off.

Now, onto Charms—where, if history was any indicator, things were about to get a whole lot more interesting.