Transfiguration class was held in a bright, orderly room that seemed to hum with potential energy. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled to bursting with dense, ancient tomes, their spines cracked and faded from years of use. A long desk stood at the front, its polished surface gleaming beneath the soft glow of the high windows. Chalkboards on either side of the room bore meticulous diagrams of objects mid-transformation: teapots melting into tortoises, candlesticks unfurling into sunflowers.

Every surface seemed impossibly clean, as though mess or imperfection were not tolerated here. The faint scent of parchment and a sharper hint of ozone hung in the air, like the aftermath of a lightning strike. On the desks, students’ notes and tools were arranged with precision: neatly trimmed quills, stacks of parchment, and objects waiting to be transformed—a collection of goblets, matchsticks, and other mundane items.

Despite the room’s brightness, a certain tension always accompanied the lessons. The subject required concentration and absolute control; a single mistake could leave your matchstick half-scorched or your goblet sprouting feathers. Success brought a quiet thrill, the kind that came from bending reality itself to your will, but failure often left a lingering embarrassment—or worse, the remnants of a botched transformation to clean up.