Chapter 10

After class, the young wizards filed out of the Transfiguration classroom one by one, and Allen finally mustered the courage to ask Professor McGonagall about his doubts regarding the principles of magic.

After all, he was only an eleven-year-old wizard; asking naive questions was just childish chatter, and among all the professors, he felt most familiar with Professor McGonagall.

Moreover, Allen had a faint sense that Professor McGonagall was cold on the outside but warm within—seemingly strict, yet inwardly gentle—so asking her was the most suitable choice.

So he sat in his seat, watching Professor McGonagall organize the papers on her desk, occasionally making eye contact with her; she soon realized he had a question.

At that moment, Harry and Ron, who hadn’t left yet, nudged Allen. “Allen, why aren’t you leaving yet? Let’s head back to the dorm together—we’ll play wizard’s chess.” Ron said.

“Yeah, come on, we’re in the same dorm—let’s go together!” Harry added to Allen.

Allen was slightly surprised but replied politely, “Oh, thank you both, but I have some questions to ask Professor McGonagall. You go ahead—I’ll catch up later.”

Harry and Ron glanced at Professor McGonagall behind the desk, intimidated by her stern presence, unwilling to stay alone in the classroom—likely fearing she might single them out for a Transfiguration question—and quickly told Allen, “Alright, we’ll go first. We’ll wait for you in the dorm for dinner.”

Then they grabbed their books and dashed out.

Watching their retreating backs, a warm feeling surged in Allen’s chest—it felt so familiar.

It was like returning to university days, attending classes with his roommates. It had been six years since he’d left that world; he never expected to relive this feeling here.

He wondered what mood his roommates back on Earth would be in when they heard of his early death—hopefully they wouldn’t grieve too much for him...

When the classroom was empty, Allen rose from his seat and walked to Professor McGonagall’s desk.

Professor McGonagall, seated behind the desk, looked up, her sharp gaze piercing through her glasses at Allen. “Mr. Finis, do you have a question? About your work-study? Or some new issue with your health?”

Allen bowed slightly. “I have some questions about magic I’d like to ask you.”

Professor McGonagall paused her work, waved her wand, and conjured a chair opposite the desk. “Sit down and speak.”

Allen sat obediently. “Why do all our first-year textbooks only cover spell usage, but never the underlying principles of magic?”

Professor McGonagall seemed startled by the question, studying Allen with surprise. After a long pause, she said, “Mr. Finis, this is the first time in years a student has asked such a thing. What I can tell you is that magic has not only a gentle side, but also a cruel and violent one. The spells in your textbooks have been carefully selected over many years—they are the most common, safest, and least problematic. For your age, mastering these is sufficient for future work and life. Don’t dwell on the rest.”

Allen wasn’t satisfied. “You know I come from a Muggle orphanage. I’ve seen Muggles bind electricity with wires, contain gunpowder with steel, achieving things beyond imagination—all through energy conversion. But magic? When I cast a spell, I don’t feel my own strength diminish, yet I unleash something beyond imagination. How do wizards accomplish this?”

Professor McGonagall sat upright, studying Allen as if seeing him for the first time.

Facing her piercing, almost tangible gaze, Allen felt no unease—he met her eyes bravely, thinking: “Even the Sorting Hat can’t see my thoughts,

so I have nothing to fear from other wizards trying to read mine. As long as I stay calm, you won’t find anything in me.”

After a long while, Professor McGonagall finally lowered her gaze and gave a faint hum. “I didn’t expect you’d think this far ahead.”

Meeting Allen’s inquisitive stare, she hesitated. “All I can tell you now is that magic is the world’s gift to wizards—we cast spells because we resonate with the world itself.”

Seeing Allen about to speak again, Professor McGonagall’s lips twitched. “You’re still in first year. Knowing too much too soon won’t help your future development. Focus on your assigned coursework—you can trust Hogwarts completely on this.”

Allen, seeing there was no point in pressing further, bowed politely. “Thank you, Professor, for answering my questions. I’ll return now.”

Professor McGonagall nodded.

But as Allen was about to leave, she called out to him: “When you choose your career path in sixth or seventh year, consider becoming a Curse-Breaker. That path will answer many of your questions.”

Allen bowed again, then opened the door and stepped out of the classroom.

When Allen returned to the Gryffindor common room, he noticed a notice posted: Flying lessons would begin on Thursday—Gryffindor students would share the class with Slytherin.

Allen found his roommates already gathered in the common room, enthusiastically discussing the upcoming flying lesson.

But Harry and the others were sighing.

“What bad luck,” Harry groaned. “Just as I feared—humiliating myself on a broomstick in front of Malfoy.”

He now disliked Malfoy intensely.

He had longed to learn to fly—more than anything else.

“You might not embarrass yourself,” Ron said reasonably. “I know Malfoy brags constantly about how good he is at Quidditch, but I bet he’s just blowing smoke.”

Malfoy constantly talked about flying. He loudly complained that first-years weren’t allowed on the house Quidditch team, and spun long, self-aggrandizing tales, always ending with how he narrowly avoided a Muggle helicopter.

But he wasn’t the only one: from Seamus Finnigan’s tone, it sounded like he’d spent most of his childhood flying brooms across open fields.

Even Ron, if anyone would listen, would recount how he once rode Charlie’s old broom and nearly collided with a hang glider. Everyone from wizarding families chattered endlessly about Quidditch.

Neville had never ridden a broomstick in his life—his grandmother never let him near one. Everyone privately agreed she was right; even with both feet firmly on the ground, Neville managed to cause accidents constantly.

Allen joined the discussion enthusiastically. Though he’d flown many times in his past life, sitting locked in an airplane seat was nothing compared to soaring freely on a broomstick. Flying was everyone’s dream—and now that dream was about to come true, and it filled him with excitement.

Allen listened carefully and participated in every Quidditch-related topic, absorbing countless flying tips—some useful, some not.

This was the first time since his crossing that something had lifted his spirits so high. Thinking of tomorrow, when he’d ride a broomstick freely through the air, Allen began to feel nervous.

Even when everyone lay in bed that night, they continued talking animatedly about Quidditch.

But the more Allen listened, the more dazed he became. His eleven-year-old body couldn’t stay up late—he drifted into sleep without realizing it.

He didn’t notice that his wand, which he always carefully stored away before sleeping, had been carelessly tossed onto his bedside table.

Asleep, Allen mumbled in his dreams about flying, rolled over, and let his hand rest on the wand beside his bed...