Transfiguration class is always dull—until a violently sleep-deprived Regulus Black arrives fresh off a brutal Quidditch practice and absolutely unravels. Delirious, glassy-eyed, and emotionally feral, he stuns both Gryffindors and Slytherins alike by blurting out the weirdest, most unhinged shit imaginable. Chaos erupts. Sirius panics. Barty ascends. And Hogwarts may never recover. Featuring emotional whiplash, murder confessions, lesbian hearts, and the ribcage of a large cat.
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The classroom was warm with magic and dull with the weight of teenage disinterest. Transfiguration on a Wednesday morning, sixth year Gryffindor-Slytherin joint class—universally regarded as one of the most insufferable periods of the week. The torches burned too brightly for how tired everyone was, casting syrupy gold against slouching bodies and twitching parchment. Quills scratched, heads lolled, someone in the back row snored softly.
Sirius Black kicked his feet up on the desk beside him and let out a slow, dramatic exhale. “I swear to Merlin, if she makes us transfigure another fucking thimble I’m throwing myself out the window.”
“You’d bounce,” James muttered, eyes glazed over. “All that ego’s gotta act like a cushion.”
Marlene McKinnon stifled a laugh behind her hand. Lily elbowed her and hissed, “Don’t encourage him.”
Across the aisle, Remus Lupin was scribbling notes, jaw clenched in quiet concentration. Peter was chewing the end of his quill like it owed him money. Mary Macdonald looked moments away from asking McGonagall if they could please be excused due to terminal boredom.
“Where is she?” Alice Fortescue muttered, checking the clock. “She’s late.”
“No, she’s stalling,” Frank Longbottom sighed. “She knows if she leaves us alone long enough we’ll start killing each other.”
“That’s just Barty and Sirius,” Evan Rosier said dryly from the Slytherin side, where the vibes were somehow worse. Everyone was either slouched, snickering, or flicking bits of parchment at each other. Dorcas was braiding Pandora’s hair with full malice while Pandora read upside down.
And in the back corner, slumped between Barty Crouch Jr. and a snoozing Evan, sat Regulus Black.
He looked, frankly, like a corpse in expensive robes.
His uniform was rumpled, his tie knotted wrong and hanging off one shoulder, and there was what looked like dried mud still smudged on his cheekbone. His hair—usually immaculate—was falling over his glassy, dazed eyes, which blinked unevenly at the blackboard like he couldn’t quite remember what it was.
“Is he alright?” whispered Lily, leaning over to Alice.
Alice stared. “I think he’s… malfunctioning.”
“Quidditch practice,” Dorcas said proudly. “Five hours last night. Coach wouldn’t let them off the pitch until Reg hit a goal blindfolded. I think he’s entered a higher state of consciousness.”
Barty was barely holding back laughter. “He hasn’t spoken a coherent sentence since breakfast.”
The door slammed open.
Everyone jumped.
Professor McGonagall strode in, brisk and sharp-eyed as ever. “Wands out. Books open. Focus up. No more delays.”
Groans rippled across the classroom. Sirius dropped his chair back onto all four legs with a thunk. Regulus blinked. The room seemed to tilt slightly to the left.
McGonagall swept to the front and tapped the board with her wand, where the words Nonverbal Transfiguration: Theory and Practice scrawled themselves in sharp chalk.
“Now, who can remind the class what differentiates nonverbal magic from silent spellwork?”
Silence.
Then: “Mister Black.”
She was looking straight at Regulus.
The room tensed.
Regulus blinked again. Slowly turned his head toward her. Then straightened in his seat like a child answering a question in Sunday school, all soft voice and polite hands folded on his desk.
“Oh,” he said gently, like it had just occurred to him. “I think a woman should be allowed to kill one man a month.”
Silence.
Stone-cold, nuclear silence.
And then—
“WHAT?” Sirius barked.
A scream-laugh burst from Marlene’s throat. James actually fell out of his chair. Remus made a horrible choking sound like he’d just inhaled his quill. Lily clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
Barty Crouch Jr. howled.
Pandora choked on air and fell sideways into Evan, who was laughing so hard he’d turned pink.
“What the fuck, Regulus?” Sirius gasped between wheezes. “WHAT KIND OF ANSWER—?”
“It’s true,” Regulus mumbled, blinking slow and pleased. “Just one. One man. Every month. For free.”
McGonagall stared at him like she was actively calculating whether or not she could legally send a student to Azkaban for delusion-induced manslaughter.
“That was… not the question,” she said, voice barely steady.
“Oh,” Regulus said, blinking again. “My bad.”
Dorcas had gone entirely feral in the back row, kicking her desk with laughter. Gideon and Fabian had joined the Gryffindor chaos and were smacking the desk rhythmically like it was a drum. Sirius looked like he might pass out.
“That’s it,” James gasped. “He’s lost it. He’s GONE.”
“I knew he was one bad night away from murder,” Marlene crowed. “And now it’s canon!”
McGonagall pinched the bridge of her nose and moved on.
Fifteen minutes later, the class was still recovering.
McGonagall was droning about wand posture, something to do with inner stillness and intent. Regulus was listing slightly to the left in his seat, cheek pressed to his palm, eyelids at half-mast.
“Mister Black,” she called again, this time with less hope. “Do you recall the wizarding condition affecting speech we discussed last term?”
Regulus sat up sharply. “Oh! I know this one.”
Everyone braced.
He perked up with the unearned glee of a man who had just found a pound coin in the street.
“What’s that dise—he has like, a disease or something where you can’t talk—” he paused, eyes wide, “Oh! He had a stutter!”
There was a pause.
A beat.
Then chaos.
“I—WHAT—” Sirius shrieked.
“He had a stutter, oh my god,” Lily gasped.
“Do you mean, like, stammering?” Remus asked, both amused and genuinely confused.
Regulus nodded solemnly. “Yes. His words. They had... hiccups.”
Dorcas hit her head on the table from laughing too hard. Barty looked like he was having a religious experience.
“He’s speaking in riddles,” Peter whispered. “Like a cursed oracle.”
Pandora wiped tears from her cheeks. “Someone write these down. He’s like poetry.”
“‘His words had hiccups,’” Evan repeated, dazed. “Fucking Shakespeare, this one.”
McGonagall looked visibly older. Her lips were pressed into such a tight line they were nearly gone.
“Correct, Mister Black,” she said in a dead voice. “I suppose. Sit down.”
“I am sitting,” Regulus whispered, like he’d discovered something profound.
Half the class was trying not to look at Regulus anymore. The other half couldn’t stop.
He was staring at his hands now like he wasn’t quite sure how they got there. Barty had stopped trying to contain his laughter altogether and was just letting it happen.
Then, softly:
“When I was born,” Regulus murmured, “some of the doctors said I had the… ribcage of a large cat.”
The entire classroom snapped around like they were choreographed.
“What.” Sirius said flatly.
“Like a lion?” Peter asked, entirely serious.
Regulus didn’t blink. “A puma, I think.”
“No,” James whispered. “No no no no no—”
Regulus was still going.
“And some of the doctors said I had the heart of a lesbian.”
Dead silence.
No one knew what to say.
Lily dropped her quill.
Pandora froze mid-braid.
Frank looked like he’d just seen God and wasn’t sure He was real anymore.
Even McGonagall was speechless.
“You guys ever think about that?” Regulus asked softly, like he was genuinely curious. “Like how weird it is to be born.”
James made a horrible strangled noise and slid off his chair for the second time that day.
“Oh my god,” Marlene wheezed, bent double. “What is he ON?”
“My brother is… ascended,” Sirius said, staring at Regulus in horror and awe.
“I’m gonna make a tapestry,” Barty muttered. “Every word he’s said today. Gold thread. Hang it above my bed.”
By the time the class was nearly over, Regulus had gone quiet again. Everyone was watching him like he might explode at any second.
McGonagall was mid-sentence, explaining something about advanced transformation, when Regulus suddenly let out a soft sigh.
“Sorry guys,” he said, voice wobbling. “I… sighhh. My stepdad’s in the hospital.”
“Not really,” Regulus said brightly. “He actually passed a couple years back but—!”
There was a collective shriek of laughter.
McGonagall slammed her hand on the desk.
“CLASS. DISMISSED.”
They scattered like rats in a flood.
Regulus remained in his chair, blinking peacefully at the chalkboard. Barty gently slid an arm around his shoulders and guided him out like a mother cat carrying her kitten. Pandora clutched her journal to her chest, already scribbling. Dorcas was in tears.
Sirius caught up to them in the hall. “Reg, what the hell is wrong with you?”
Regulus looked up at him dreamily. “Do you ever think birds can lie?”
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For being a game centered around a kid who is very behind their classmates in class, five years in fact, it seems like there should be more scheduled classes. Maybe not every single day cycle, but certainly more than a single class for each subject.
Hopefully the next Hogwarts Legacy game is a little more fleshed out if it’s centered around a Hogwarts student.
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Set in the course of his Sixth Year, this story follows Slytherin's finest, Blaise Zabini, as he navigates classes and friendships and Death Eaters and a certain idiot plant-head Gryffindor.
Sixth year had started nicely: Blaise had been asked to join the Slug Club, and his mother had yet to find a new disposable rich husband and was leaving him the space to do whatever he wanted. Despite Draco's father being thrown in Azkaban and the sudden sulkiness of the blonde boy, the atmosphere wasn't much tenser than usual.
Sure, Draco probably was going to kill someone by the glares he gave and might have punched Saint Potter on the train, completely justifiable, and The Dark Lord had officially risen, sending everyone in a constant state of panic; but things were not that erratic, especially for a Slytherin Pureblood like him. The world was his oyster.
Which was why he was about to kick Pansy Parkinson off the Astronomy Tower.
They had agreed upon a seating chart that allowed all of them to maximize their brain capacities in order to gain as many House Points as possible. Since Draco was the Slytherin on top of every class, damned little miss perfect Granger and her habit of beating his friend up on the podium, the settlements revolved around the blonde and each individual strength. Pansy got Charms, her silver tongue finally useful on an academic level and not only on dark corners with older students; Theodore had Potions, his natural talent ready to expose himself in front of Slughorn, who had decided to keep him out of the little impromptu meeting on the train and to whom Theo had sworn vengeance; he would get Transfiguration, being the most skilled at changing various things in different states almost flawlessly and also due to the fact that he was the best behaved Slytherin. Amongst the members of Draco's Inner Circle anyway: Crabble and Goyle were bullies and lost causes, Millicent was as dull as a wall, Theo was too impulse, Draco was, well, Draco and Pansy was, for lack of a better word, a bucchinara. Only Blaise was polite and respectful and tried to keep his personal vendettas hidden and managed to deal with them without a fuzz, and that, plus his innate aptitude for Transfiguration, meant he went along with Professor McGonagall pretty smoothly.
Which meant that Transfiguration was his.
The other classes were not as important and therefore their seatings could be random, but for those they came prepared. Slytherin was going to win the House Cup that year, unless Draco revealed that he was already a marked Death Eater, which would've made them lose a shitton of points but nothing more. After all, no one had ever been expelled from Hogwarts during Dumbledore's Reign and Blaise was positive it would never happen.
But he was about to get his first detention of the year, possibly, if that bitch didn't move. That would have not been a great way to start, but deep down he was sure it would've been worth it. "Pansy, move your white ass off that chair at this instant" he said through gritted teeth, barely moving his lips and avoiding creasing his flawless smile. 'Rule number one' his mother had taught him, 'always appear kind and gentle and then stab them in the back and get them coins.'
"Why would I do that, Zabini? I'm comfortable here" claimed the annoying girl that was very close to getting hexed, leaning back with a lazy smile on her face.
Blaise had many great qualities, but he also had no room in his body for bullshit. 'Rule number two: never hit first but obliterate them after they start. And don't forget, never ruin a manicure.' He mentally counted to ten, trying to calm himself before he did something he might've regretted, "We agreed yesterday on this" he said, slowly losing his patience. He had very little disregard for those who didn't appreciate his careful planning.
Pansy gave him a poisonous smile, her bold red lips giving her extra points in the vicious department. "Change of plans, pretty boy" she said, voice saccharine and melodious that managed to hide perfectly her true nature.
'Rule number three' his mind recalled 'do not have witnesses nor explicit motif in case you do remove someone from this Earth'. That threw a wrench in his immediate future.
Breathing deeply inwards and closing his eyes, he imagined the petite girl being slowly entrapped in a Devil's Snare and painfully dying. It made him feel instantaneously better. When he opened his eyes again, unfortunately, one of his main causes of stress was still there, now joined by Draco, who took the golden medal in the 'giving Blaise headaches' category. His roommate was puzzled by the sight but decided not to complain and chose to poke holes into Saint Potter's head with his consistent stare.
Blaise wondered, not for the first time, what would've happened first, a make-out session in a broom closet between the Saviour of the Wizarding World and his friend, or a murder. Things would be less boring around Hogwarts if either event happened, even if the school was not boring to begin with.
One of the many topics he didn't agree on with Draco, especially this year, revolved around the blonde's complete annoyance to school life, despite maintaining stellar markings. Hogwarts was full of life and joy and unexpectedness.
Which was why Blaise didn't exactly want to start the year with a detention. "Very well" he said eventually, scanning the room for a proper desk to sit at. He would've avoided Gryffindors as if they carried the Plague, of course, but it seemed that the only empty chair was alongside one of them.
"Holy burning hell" he thought to himself, scolding his face into a bored and superior expression as he carefully watched Neville Fucking Longbottom casually reading his textbook with a Muggle pencil behind his ear. Blaise hadn't had all the time in the world back at the Hogwarts Express to see anyone other than his close friends, too much preoccupied to make a good first impression with Professor Slughorn to care about his fellow classmates, let alone someone as insignificant as 'Schlongbottom', as the other Slytherins called him.
"Boy oh boy, have I made a mistake!" his mind screamed.
He used to be lanky and chubby, but he must have definitely worked out during the summer, for he didn't look that way anymore. Under the shirt and vest, it was possible to see the beginning of some seriously well-kept muscles and, despite his slouched position, he an aura of confidence that he was missing the previous year. "Fighting Death Eaters in the Ministry surely left its mark, uh?" he wondered as he watched the Gryffindor move his head to talk to Weasley. There were so many of them that Blaise couldn't be bothered to keep notice of them all, but he recognized the one into his year as a general individual, blending the remaining white boys into a general identity.
He was almost immediately broken from his mind and brought to reality: "I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes" Draco snickered as he also noticed the only empty spot in the classroom, drawing also Pansy's attention to his misery. The witch gave him another vicious smile, before slowly and purposefully turning into her seat as Professor McGonagall entered the classroom. She had won that round, but Blaise was positive the unexpected outcome would see him victorious as well. 'Rule number fifteen, ogling a hot person is a great past time.'
Unbothered on the outside, he moved lazily towards the Gryffindor, noticing the surprise on the boy's face as he moved the chair next to him and took his place silently. Immediately he tensed, waiting for Blaise to attack him as his roommates had done many times, and it almost pained him to see all the confidence disappear under a cautious mask. But he had to give it to him, Longbottom didn't even flinch as he unceremoniously dumped his textbook and notebook on his side of the desk. He would've gotten a lot of dirty looks from his friends if he was somebody else carrying a Muggle object, but since he was Blaise Zabini no one said anything. After all, countless meters of parchment were as impractical as eating soup with a fork.
He also didn't miss the slightest nod of approval to ever been given him, directly from Professor McGonagall herself, before she began her first lecture of the sixth year.
And with that, they started.
***
Two hours later and with six pages of notes and the tiniest smidge of ink from a Muggle pen on his hands, 'I'll be damned if I have to write every day with a messy quill", the lecture was over. Professor McGonagall had done a brilliant job as usual, with her being the most competent, if not the only, teacher in the school, but one thing was absolutely clear as day to Blaise: the recently very attractive Gryffindor boy seated next to him was absolutely useless at Transfiguration. His grandfather would've used the word chiavica with a disapproving look at his way and forced him to sit and eat twelve different dishes, as if that would've made him improve.
The problem wasn't that he lacked the proper concentration and magical talent, but rather that he wasn't as passionate about the subject as Blaise was. The boy had also taken countless notes, writing them at the corners of his book in a minute calligraphy with his Muggle graphite, and he seemed to grasp the general concept, yet failed almost comically at properly producing the magic.
Needless to say, the Slytherin dreaded the day his favourite teacher would give them a project to be done in pairs.
Not a single word had been uttered between the two boys, as it should have been. They had no communal interests nor any shared group of acquaintances, even if they were both Purebloods. Their Houses were rivals, their roommates were arch-nemesis, and yet here they both were, seated in silence next to each other.
But there had been guarded glances from both sides, of that he was sure. He looked at the Gryffindor with fretted disinterest, desperately trying not to get caught staring at the hot guy next to him like a creep, while Longbottom looked occasionally back with something akin of fear and disdain. He wasn't really surprised by the reaction and couldn't really blame him. Blaise wasn't sure if his family had remained neutral or had been hurt at the hands of Death Eaters before Saint Potter saved everyone, but nevertheless, the Slytherin house suffered an image decline due to their notorious works. The House reputation was turbid and getting dirtier by the hour, with all the alumni tarnishing the good name of their former house with their debauchery. Of course, not all Slytherins were evil, but it was the fucking coincidence of the majority of those evildoers being Slytherins that gave way to all the hate.
"You're just giving into the stereotype" he had ranted at Draco on the train, after the blonde told him the news, "and yours is such a bloody shitton of bullshit l cannot tolerate anymore!"
And just like that, the class was over and students packed their bags to migrate into their next lecture. He had now a free period, as the majority of his friends took Divination for reasons unknown to him, and decided to make it count as much as possible by staying in the library before going to 6th year History of Magic.
After signalling a little goodbye to his housemates, he turned around to the pretty useless boy next to him to begrudgingly salute him as well and perhaps ask him to trade place with someone less inept at the subject, only to find said incredibly tall and gorgeous beefcake standing in all his height with a bag draped over his shoulder. Despite the sudden tough exterior, he had a kind and polite smile and a softness in his voice that Blaise would've never guessed. "Apparently we have to seat next to each other now" he said with a shy tone, and then immediately went to nervously bite his lips. Blaise was dumbfounded, unable to form words at the sight hovering over him. He definitely wasn't the lanky boy he remembered.
Unsettled by his lack of response and probably taking his silence as a sign of disgust, Longbottom let out a shaky laugh, trying to ease the tension. Bringing a hand up to scratch his neck. "Look, I get it if you want to switch" he began, looking down at his shoes, "but I don't think Professor McGonagall would let us."
That brought him back on Earth. He had not mistaken the look of approval the Professor had given him and he'd be damned if he ever let down the best teacher Hogwarts had ever seen over something so futile as a seating partner.
Also it didn't hurt that his deskmate was a bloody vision, incompetent maybe, but most definitely his type. And now more than ever he needed to know for which team this asshole beat for.
"Yeah, no. I know, it's fine or whatever" he stuttered nonchalantly, knowing that he sounded dismissal while on the inside he was a bubbling mess. Trying to regain his composure and to remember his reputation, he spat out with as little venom as possible, "I guess there could be worse of you lot to sit next to."
"Wrong. Fucking. Thing. To. Say. Genius" his mind yelled as he internally cringed at his choice of words while maintaining a disinterested exterior. He saw the exact moment Longbottom's face went from kind and polite to pissed off. In all the years they had spent at school together they had never really talked or acknowledged each other's existence, not as much as he had with members of the other two Houses, yet Longbottom would've never stroke him as the type of person that could get angry.
"That's cause you never spoke to him until now. Stop thinking with your dick" his brain fired as he rose from his seat and stood a few centimetres short of the Gryffindor. He had to admit that it was incredibly hard to stop thinking with his dick at the moment, but managed to maintain a neutral expression.
"Yeah, well. I guess so too" replied rather childishly the other boy, folding his arms over his chest and giving him what must've been his best glare. "I was trying to be polite, but I guess there is no way for a civilized conversation or partnership with you lot" he retorted, raising an eyebrow.
Now it was Blaise's turn to appear pissed and he mustered his worst killing glare, created by years of training, "Do not generalize me and I won't generalize you."
Longbottom was looking down at him, almost as if he was a puzzle that was not behaving. He supposed that from his perspective it was like that, since generally speaking they were supposed to hate each other's guts and here they were, one clearly trying not to lust for the other and the other apparently disapproving of the one's entire existence.
He eventually conceded, "Very well. See you around, Zabini." And with that Longbottom left, joining Thomas and that Fire Kid from his House.
Blaise was left alone, baffled and shocked, before he shook violently his head and left also the classroom and began walking in solitude towards the library.
This had the potential to become a great or a terrible year, and he supposed that the majority of the chances rested on the unexpected outcome of the Transfiguration class.
GLOSSARY:
'bucchinara' is a southern Italian word that means 'someone who gives blowjobs'
'chiavica' is a southern Italian word that means 'someone that really really sucks at something'
