Chapter 10: After Class

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

After all, he was just an eleven-year-old young wizard; asking some naive questions was harmless childish talk, and besides, among so many professors, he was only relatively close to Professor McGonagall.

Moreover, Allen vaguely sensed that Professor McGonagall was someone cold on the outside but warm at heart; she appeared very strict on the surface, but her heart was soft, so asking her was the most appropriate choice.

So he sat at his desk, watching Professor McGonagall tidy up the documents on her table; during this time, he exchanged a glance with her, and Professor McGonagall realized he had a question to ask.

At this moment, Harry and Ron, who hadn't left yet, nudged Allen from the side. "Allen, class is over, why aren't you leaving? Let's go back to the dormitory together; we can play Wizard's Chess," Ron said.

"Yes, let's go together; we're in the same dormitory, so let's all go together!" Harry also said to Allen.

Allen was slightly surprised but still spoke politely: "Ah, thank you both, but I have some questions to ask Professor McGonagall; you two go back first, no need to wait for me."

Harry and Ron glanced at Professor McGonagall behind the lectern; somewhat intimidated by her authority and daring not to stay alone in the classroom, likely fearing she would single them out for questioning on Transfiguration, they cheerfully said to Allen: "Then we'll go first; we'll wait for you in the dormitory to go to dinner together."

Having said this, they grabbed their textbooks and dashed off in a flash.

Watching the backs of the two as they departed, a warm current surged in Allen's heart; what a familiar feeling!

It seemed like returning to his university days, attending classes with roommates; calculating the dates, he had already left university in his previous world six years ago, never expecting to relive this feeling here.

He wondered what kind of mood his roommates on Earth would be in upon receiving news of his untimely death; he hoped they wouldn't be too heartbroken for him...

Once everyone had left the classroom, Allen walked from his seat to stand before Professor McGonagall.

Sitting behind the desk, Professor McGonagall lifted her head, her stern gaze piercing through her glasses to fix on Allen: "Mr. Finis, do you have a question to ask? Is it regarding your work-study matters, or has some new problem arisen with your health that you need to tell me about?"

Allen bowed slightly: "It's just that recently I have some questions about magic that I wish to consult you on."

Professor McGonagall, giving him face, stopped her current work, waved her wand to conjure a chair opposite the desk, and said: "Sit down and speak."

Allen obediently sat down: "I wanted to ask, why do all our first-year textbooks contain only the usage of spells, but not the essential principles of magic?"

Professor McGonagall seemed very surprised to hear this question; she examined Allen with wonder and only spoke after a long pause: "Mr. Finis, in all my years, this is the first time I have seen a student raise such a question. What I can tell you now is that magic has not only a gentle side but also a cruel and violent one; the spells in the textbooks are the spell within, carefully selected by us over many years; they are the most common, safe, and least problematic magics. Learning these magics at your age is sufficient for your future work and life; do not think too much about the rest."

Allen felt somewhat unwilling to give up and pressed further: "You know I come from a Muggle orphanage; I have seen Muggles bind electrical power with wires and bind gunpowder with steel to achieve things beyond imagination, the essence of which is energy conversion. So what about magic? When I cast spells, I do not feel my own power diminishing, yet I release magic beyond imagination; how do we wizards accomplish all this?"

Professor McGonagall sat up straight, examining him as if seeing Allen for the first time.

Facing Professor McGonagall's stern gaze, which felt almost tangible, Allen's heart remained utterly calm; he bravely met her eyes, thinking to himself: "Even the Sorting Hat couldn't see my thoughts,

so I certainly don't fear any other wizard seeing through my thoughts; as long as I don't panic, you won't see anything from me."

After quite a while, Professor McGonagall withdrew her gaze and gave a slight snort: "I didn't expect you to have thought this far!"

Meeting Allen's inquiring gaze, Professor McGonagall said hesitantly: "For now, I can only tell you that magic is this world's gift to wizards; our ability to cast magic stems from a resonance between the wizard themselves and this world."

Seeing that Allen was about to ask more, the corner of Professor McGonagall's mouth twitched, and she quickly added: "You are still only a first-year; knowing too much about this aspect prematurely is not conducive to your future development, so for now, just focus on learning the courses the school has arranged for you; in this regard, you can fully trust Hogwarts."

Seeing this, Allen had no choice but to drop the matter; he politely bid farewell to Professor McGonagall: "Thank you, Professor, for resolving my doubts; I will take my leave now."

Professor McGonagall nodded.

However, just as Allen was about to exit the door, she called him back: "When you choose your career direction in your sixth or seventh year, you might consider the direction of a counter-spell specialist; in that field, many of your doubts can be explained."

Allen bowed slightly once more, pushed open the door, and walked out of the classroom.

When Allen returned to the Gryffindor common room, he found a notice posted there stating that Flying Lessons would begin tomorrow, Thursday—Gryffindor students would be attending class together with Slytherin students.

Allen discovered that his roommates were all in the common room, heatedly discussing the Flying Lesson.

However, Harry and the others were sighing miserably.

"So unlucky," Harry said dejectedly, "just as I expected. Making a fool of myself on a flying broomstick right in front of Malfoy."

He now thoroughly disliked Malfoy.

He had been longing to learn how to fly, a desire stronger than anything else.

"It's not certain that you'll make a fool of yourself," Ron said sensibly, "I know Malfoy is always boasting, saying he's fantastic at Quidditch, but I bet he's just talking big."

Malfoy talked about flying all day long; he complained loudly that first-years weren't allowed on the House Quidditch teams, and he told many long, self-aggrandizing stories, always ending with his narrow escape from a Muggle helicopter.

However, he wasn't the only one spinning such tall tales: judging by Seamus Finnigan's tone, it seemed he had spent most of his childhood flying around the countryside on a broomstick.

Even Ron, whenever someone was willing to listen, would recount the time he rode Charlie's old broom and nearly collided with a hang-glider; everyone from a wizarding family talked endlessly about Quidditch.

Neville had never ridden a broomstick in his life because his grandmother never allowed him to go near one; privately, everyone felt his grandmother was quite right, since even with both feet firmly planted on the ground, Neville managed to cause an endless series of accidents.

Allen also participated enthusiastically in the discussion; although he had flown on airplanes many times in his previous life, how could being locked in a small seat compare to the fun of flying on a broomstick? Moreover, flight is a dream everyone has had, and when that dream is about to come true, it is so exhilarating.

Allen listened attentively and participated in every topic about playing Quidditch, also absorbing many pieces of flying advice whose usefulness remained unknown.

This was the first time since Allen's transmigration that something had made his heart leap with such excitement; thinking that tomorrow he would be riding a broomstick, flying freely back and forth, Allen actually began to feel somewhat nervous.

Even until night, when everyone lay in bed, they continued to enthusiastically exchange various matters concerning Quidditch.

As for Allen, the more he listened, the more confused he felt; his small eleven-year-old body could not endure staying up late, and before he knew it, he had drifted into dreamland.

What he failed to notice was that his wand, which he usually carefully put away before sleeping, had this time been casually tossed onto the head of the bed.

In his sleep, Allen muttered dream-talk related to flying, rolled over, and rested his hand on the wand at the head of the bed...