#transfiguration

Sixth Year had welcomed them with open arms — with breakfasts in the Great Hall now turned into a refuge for stressed-out students, and hours lost in the library over pumpkin juice and ink-smudged notes.

Autumn had swept in with it the rising expectations of the professors, all preparing their students for the NEWTs they’d sharpen the following year. And so everyone had started wandering the corridors smelling faintly of scorched lavender from Potions class, reading letters from home while poking at dinner.

But there was something different in the air that year. Maybe it was the feeling of nearing the end of their Hogwarts days, or maybe the taste of freedoms they’d longed for ever since the Sorting Hat had first been lowered onto their heads.

That day, students were standing before Professor Snape, listening as he explained the use of new ingredients they'd cultivated during Herbology. He handed each of them a new textbook to keep. His black hair framed an expression even more sour than usual — the one he wore whenever Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins for the practical part of the lesson.

His eyes, predictably, drifted to the back of the classroom, to the same sight he’d been met with for years. George Weasley was standing there, spinning a quill between his fingers, while his loyal partner in green had her head gently resting against his arm — her usual place.

As if — be it summer or winter, whether they'd just witnessed a girl being petrified or the latest prank from that ever-famous Gryffindor trio — they always ended up there. On the shiniest tile of the Potions classroom floor, her voice low and steady as she explained the diagrams Snape had handed out at the start of class.

George always kept an eye on Snape. She, meanwhile, was already memorizing the measurements of each ingredient, with that soft smile she wore whenever something truly captured her interest.

She loved Potions. Or maybe — she loved every class, really.

They’d made it through the winter wrapped in their robes, and now the dungeons were warming with spring's return — that heady, reckless warmth that made you want to spill out onto the grounds, maybe even wander past Hagrid’s hut just because.

But Snape’s dramatics anchored them all to the floor. And he kept watching the way George and the Slytherin girl worked together — now seated, elbows brushing.

She was peeling a root. George was copying her notes, gripping his quill between thumb and forefinger, the other hand flat on the parchment to keep it still. When they moved to the brewing, George rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, stirring with a focus he had never once shown in Snape’s classroom. She had once again leaned lightly against his arm, reading instructions with a lock of hair slipping past her nose.

“Miss ____,” Snape drawled, voice dry as bone. “I presume Mr. Weasley is now your official emotional support twin?”

She didn’t look up, simply poured a vial of extract into the potion.

“Must I remind you that your role in this classroom is not decorative?”

“No, sir.”

Her voice was calm, respectful, measured. When she stood upright again, shoulders square, nobody noticed the way George took half a step closer — just enough to read over her shoulder again.

Around them, caldrons hissed and spit. One group’s potion billowed black smoke; another had achieved a murky green sludge. But beneath Snape’s ever-watchful eye, the pair — the pair he least tolerated — had brewed something perfectly clear, subtle, and steady.

They had met in third year, back when they'd started chatting in the hallway outside Transfiguration. Sometimes they’d trade chocolate frogs, sometimes just keep each other company between lessons — him with his half-muttered jokes, her with that crystalline laugh that rang through even the quietest corners of the castle.

By fourth year, they were hiding behind stone arches after mischief with Fred, then reappearing like nothing happened — her returning to being the straight-A student no one really knew, because there was always someone louder, someone flashier. But with George, she never had to be the best. She didn’t even have to prove she could be.

He handed her ink before she could ask. Waited for her by the common room door when he knew her day had been long, just to walk her down to the wooden bridge and sit there in silence until dinner.

“If your proximity to Mr. Weasley is required for his comprehension,” Snape said now, placing a hand on her shoulder as she adjusted the flame beneath the caldron, “I suggest you consider tutoring him outside of scheduled class hours.”

“I’m not tutoring him,” she replied, unshaken. She’d grown used to Snape’s tone — the way he never quite accepted that George was improving in his classroom. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Snape squinted at George through the veil of his black hair, as if he’d just caught him stealing dittany from his personal stores.

George, for his part, was silently slicing the last root, movements precise, mouth set in quiet focus.

Their sides touched — her stirring, him cutting — a small, easy closeness that spoke more than words ever could.

“Remarkable,” Snape murmured. “He’s learned something. And yet your elbow appears permanently fused to his arm.”

George didn’t even look up. His knife slid cleanly through the root.

Snape leaned in slightly, head between theirs.

“You may not be speaking,” he said coolly, “but some distractions, Mr. Weasley, are visible rather than audible. You take up more space than your marks suggest you deserve.”

The class reeked of burnt lavender, and yet the air was warmer than usual. The lesson ended — at last — and Snape made his final lap around the classroom.

He declared another group’s cloudy, oversteeped potion the best of the lot. Not theirs — even though he knew it was superior, flawless in technique and result.

He gave ten house points to a pair of Slytherins whose work didn’t hold a candle to theirs.

That evening, on the bench in the quiet courtyard, they laughed over it all — at Snape’s face, at his comments, at how he just couldn’t stand the fact that they worked better together than any student pairing he’d ever tried to engineer.

“And you, if you plan to succeed in this subject—” she imitated, dramatically, “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

The sun hung lazily above them, catching on the edges of the grass that George was fiddling with in one hand.

He lay almost fully stretched out on the lawn, nose scrunched, smiling lazily as he pretended to reread her notes.

She sat upright beside him, head tucked against the curve of his shoulder and chest — because that was always where she ended up.

And he never moved.

“You reckon,” she added, “Snape keeps a personal diary of all the ways he wants to sabotage our friendship?”

“With headings and bullet points.”

She picked a few little flowers from the grass, pressing them between the pages of her book, while George had abandoned the notebook beside them and closed his eyes.

“Daily entries,” she insisted.

“‘April tenth: Miss _____ smiled at Weasley again. Points deducted on principle.’”

And the Slytherin burst into that crystalline laughter—the one that had brightened George’s days ever since he handed her one of his creepy crawlies during Divination class a few years back. He looked at her, hands folded behind his head, lips parted in amusement.

“He probably cries into his robes.”

“We’re his worst nightmare,” she said, turning to rest her chin on the boy’s chest, her face tilted slightly, lit by the lazy sun that had begun to signal the arrival of evening—when fireflies flickered and seventh years dashed off toward Hogsmeade.

“And each other’s favorite person,” replied the redhead, reaching out to affectionately tap her nose, with no awkward pause, knowing how easy it was for them to spend time like this—without the heavy questions that might make things complicated.

“D’you think McGonagall finds us annoying, too?”

“She gives us house points when she thinks no one’s watching.”

George grabbed the notebook again, mumbling something about her handwriting being illegible, which earned him another smile from her and a delightfully witty comeback.

Still full of pumpkin juice and the delicious treats that always appeared on the Great Hall tables in the morning, they’d headed to Transfiguration class, where tall windows cast soft morning light across their faces. George had arrived first, walking casually, a bluish glint masking his freckles as he slid into their usual seat—always at the back, far right, behind Fred and Lee, who were certainly going to be late.

As usual, he laid down his parchment and quill on the desk, fiddling with the cap of the ink bottle while Professor McGonagall prepared the lesson behind her desk. She arrived a bit later, delayed by a Hufflepuff girl who’d asked her for help with a Herbology assignment that would otherwise have interfered with Quidditch. The light catching her face came in gold tones from the lower part of the windows, and she lingered at the doorway to grab a few more parchments before sitting beside the redhead. The usual scent of burnt lavender from the dungeons had been replaced by the warm aroma of wood and ink in the Gryffindor head’s classroom—but what hadn’t changed was how close the two of them always sat.

“Excellent, Miss ______” said the professor, her voice kind.

The Slytherin had just transfigured a matchstick into a silver pin under George’s attentive gaze, as he observed closely, memorizing everything she did even though she never had to turn to see him do it. When she noticed McGonagall standing in front of her, she paused for a second, moving slightly away from George, but the professor raised her hand slightly, as if to say not to worry, her glasses low on her nose.

“Mr. Weasley,” she added, “you seem to be concentrating harder in my class than you ever have before.”

“Suppose I’ve upgraded my seat, Professor.”

McGonagall had grown used to scanning her classroom, catching boys testing their wands and girls adjusting their hair when students from other houses entered. Most always sat in the same spots, forming patterns they assumed she didn’t notice—but her gaze often landed on that last row in the back-right corner.

Y/L/N and Weasley. They didn’t talk loudly or whisper like the others; they gave each other their full attention, absorbing one another. Perhaps McGonagall had been the first to notice how they always gravitated toward the same anchor point, their little corner.

And when the girl rested her head on the arm of the boy—so much taller and broader than her—it was never out of exhaustion or flirtation like others who slouched or bumped shoulders teasingly. She simply leaned on his shoulder, and neither of them ever seemed to mind. George never got distracted, even though he had never once paid attention with Fred. He didn’t look down at her or get lost in her—he just made sure she was comfortable, jotting down a few notes here and there. They had never been distracting—and never would be. But they were always noticeable.

“Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said, “for correct technique… and improved discipline.”

George smiled as he watched her walk away. And let himself toss out a small joke that made the girl next to him laugh.

“Do you think she’s going soft in her old age?”

She handed him another parchment, amused. Every point their houses earned came directly out of Snape’s tally, who seemed increasingly unable to stomach watching one of his best Slytherin students bond so effortlessly with a Gryffindor—worse, a Weasley. He’d say she was competent, while George was just an accessory—and that his classroom was no stage for duets. All while George’s pinky wrapped gently around hers. And in all those times she handed him her quill, knowing exactly what he needed—or when he saved her from disaster, knowing she was brilliant but also hilariously clumsy—

George was improving, in all those evenings around the Gryffindor table, which had half-adopted her, one arm draped around her shoulders and his eyes on the napkin she used to explain things during the most random moments. And everyone saw the house points rising, despite Snape’s best efforts. And McGonagall was secretly pleased, her rare smile quietly revealing it.

By summer, they found themselves once again in the dungeons of the castle, the scent of potions embedded in their memories, cauldrons bubbling, students anxious over the final Potions class before their seventh year. In the very back—where the shadows couldn’t reach—two figures stood behind their workstation, shoulders nearly touching as if silently reminding each other that they worked better together than alone. Their table was perfectly organized, ingredients balanced with care, and a shared checklist sat between them—half in her writing, half in his unexpectedly neat script.

The potion they had to brew was the hardest of sixth year—so complex that a single extra stir could curdle the entire mixture.

Most students had already given up. A Ravenclaw girl declared her defeat after spilling a foul-smelling mess on the stone floor, while a few Gryffindors muttered frantically about smoke and whether they’d added the right amount of feathers. Through the chaos, Snape’s voice cut like a crow through storm clouds over the Black Lake.

Meanwhile, she and George didn’t need to speak.

He lit the fire; she checked the temperature with the back of her hand, consulting the list while the Gryffindor ground moonstone in the mortar. And the most remarkable part? They hadn’t rehearsed this potion. Not once.

His movements blended with hers like they’d done it a thousand times before. Three clockwise stirs, she added an ingredient, one counterclockwise stir, five seconds of stillness—then repeat. The potion began to glow with a pearly shimmer and its unmistakable scent filled the air. She glanced up at George, breaking free from their shared rhythm, just as his lips curled into a small smile.

The classroom had quieted. Even Snape’s sighs were audible now. Everyone else had given up. Lee had been the last, his hand trembling when he saw the professor approach.

When Snape finally stood in front of their desk—the one he loathed most—they didn’t even look up. Their potion spoke for itself, releasing soft, perfect-colored puffs just as the textbook described, no trace of cloudiness.

For once, there was no mistake. Nothing to criticize.

“I assume,” Snape said at last, his voice like steel cooled in oil, “that Miss ______ brewed this alone. Mr. Weasley’s hands appear clean, for once.”

They didn’t answer. George picked up the final vial and poured it into the potion without a trace of tension, while she checked the temperature with unmatched precision. And that’s when Snape saw it. The perfect timing. The shared glances. The subtle nods, exchanged like silent cues.

“Is there a reason,” he continued, quieter now, “that the two of you insist on treating this classroom as if it were… a coordinated ballet?”

At that, they finally looked up. Matching, quietly confident smiles on their young faces.

The potion was complete. There was nothing left to say.

As Snape walked away, she rested her head on George’s arm, and he drew a line through the last step of the recipe. Once again, they had worked beautifully—in silence.

That evening, they returned to their usual spot on the grass, backs against the bench. Fred had joined them, watching as she scribbled something into a notebook and handed it to George.

“What in Merlin’s name was that today?”

They laughed, and George crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to lean against him. And she did—this time looking up at the boy’s smile. At the soft freckles on his nose. The ones she’d come to love all summer long at the Burrow.

“I think he didn’t know what to do with us,” she said. “No insults left. No points to take.”

Folio 45v from a 13th century Byzantine illuminated manuscript (Ms. Ludwig II 5) now in the Getty Center, Los Angeles. This illumination depicts the Transfiguration, as described in Chapter 17 of the Gospel of Matthew. Christ, in the center and surrounded by a mandola, is flanked by Moses and Elijah. Beneath them, the disciples Peter, James, and John react with astonishment.

★ O.W.L.'s:

Potions Charms Care of Magical Creatures Herbology History of Magic Divination Study of Ancient Runes Astronomy Muggle Studies (coming soon)

★ N.E.W.T.'s:

Potions Charms Transfiguration Herbology Care of Magical Creatures Defense Against the Dark Arts History of Magic Divination Study of Ancient Runes Astronomy Muggle Studies (coming soon)