Chapter 62

Under the assault of Allen’s Ultraman figurine, Harry finally made up with him, which eased Allen’s breath.

But his thoughts were interrupted, the fragile line of reasoning he’d begun to piece together vanished, and in the end, he decided to seek Professor McGonagall’s help—after all, she was the true master of Transfiguration and surely could offer him some insight.

So he borrowed Hedwig from Harry to send a letter to Professor McGonagall, simply saying he had a question he wished to ask and inquiring when she might be free.

It wasn’t until the day before the Christmas break ended that Allen received Professor McGonagall’s reply, instructing him to come to her office.

Allen walked confidently to Professor McGonagall’s office; she seemed less busy today, the Christmas break having improved her complexion and softened her expression.

“Speak up, what problem needed asking during the holidays?” Professor McGonagall sat upright behind her desk.

Allen then recounted to her his attempt to Transfigure an Ultraman, describing Dicar Ultraman as his own original creation.

Though she didn’t fully grasp the concept of Ultraman—a Muggle phenomenon—Professor McGonagall gathered sufficient information from his account.

“I think I understand your meaning: you wish to Transfigure something that has never existed in the world, yet find it extremely difficult, while Transfiguring something common and familiar proves far easier—is that correct?” Professor McGonagall summarized.

“Yes! Yes! Why is that?” Allen nodded vigorously like a chick pecking grain, gazing at Professor McGonagall with hopeful expectation, begging her to answer.

“Wizards discovered this long ago,” Professor McGonagall said hesitantly.

Allen, familiar with Professor McGonagall, immediately sensed what she was thinking.

“Professor, am I allowed to know the details of these Transfiguration contents?” Allen asked, his voice lacking confidence; as someone shaped by the internet age, his mind teemed with wild ideas, and when he’d previously asked her about them, she always dismissed him with “beyond the curriculum.”

She’d also said each stage of instruction was carefully planned, and learning ahead offered him no benefit.

“Hmm, you may know now,” Professor McGonagall paused, then decided. “Your progress is nearly at the point of Transfiguring objects into animals, and your Transfiguration grades have consistently matched Miss Granger’s as the highest. You may learn this material.”

“Thank you, Professor!” Allen hurried to express his gratitude.

Professor McGonagall organized her thoughts, then spoke softly: “Do you remember the question you asked me two months ago—whether Transfiguration spells could be used in combat? You proposed many interesting ideas then.”

Allen instantly understood which incident she meant.

At the time, Allen had been searching for ways to strengthen himself, reviewing every spell he knew, trying to devise a combat tactic for emergencies—only to realize it was futile; no effective combination was possible.

It was then that Transfiguration entered his focus—he seriously considered how to use it in battle, even just for escape.

But after much thought, he still had no clear idea, so he boldly approached Professor McGonagall with the question.

She was surprised he’d asked it; in her words, Transfiguration was mostly used to aid daily life and work, rarely for combat, primarily because it required far longer preparation than other spells.

The fourth element of any spell—the caster’s subjective intent toward its effect—is simple for most spells, but Transfiguration is different: you must possess a crystal-clear mental image of the transformation’s result.

The clearer the image, the less likely the spell will fail; if the target is an animal, you must also have a precise understanding and plan of its behavioral logic—and by the time you’ve prepared all this and successfully cast the spell, your opponent has already cast four or five other spells.

The second reason is that animals Transfigured by wizards are too fragile, and their behavioral logic is simplistic and rigid—useful against low-intelligence magical creatures, but useless against wizards.

Allen strongly disagreed with the second point and offered his idea: even if the animal is fragile, couldn’t you Transfigure its bones into steel and its skin into iron, making it no longer fragile?

Professor McGonagall refused to answer, citing the above reasoning.

Allen snapped out of his memory and looked at Professor McGonagall in confusion. “You mean the idea I proposed—turning the Transfigured animal’s bones into steel and its skin into iron?”

Professor McGonagall nodded approvingly. “Yes. You are the most imaginative student I’ve ever seen. That trait of yours left a deep impression on me.”

Allen’s lips curled upward—he knew Professor McGonagall rarely praised anyone.

“I didn’t tell you then because you had only mastered Transfiguring objects into other objects. I thought such knowledge would be premature for you, lest you chase after unattainable goals. But now, with your level, you’re ready to learn Transfiguring objects into animals—I’ve decided to share this knowledge with you.” Professor McGonagall gazed deeply at Allen.

Allen sat up straight, assuming the posture of a diligent student.

“Many wizards throughout history have had the same idea you proposed—but they all failed. Do you know why?” Professor McGonagall rose and began pacing her office.

Allen thought for a moment. “Because it’s too difficult?”

“Yes. Precisely because it’s too difficult. Wizards discovered long ago that Transfiguring something that already exists in the world is far easier; Transfiguring something entirely new multiplies the difficulty manyfold, and the complexity increases exponentially. You struggled just to Transfigure a toy—Transfiguring an object into what you described would be far beyond your imagination.”

“And I’ve always said Transfiguration is an extremely precise discipline. Even if you achieved your desired effect—iron skin and steel bones—have you considered whether such an animal could move at all?”

Allen opened his mouth, but found he had nothing to say.

Professor McGonagall paid no mind to his silence and continued: “Even if the animal’s physical structure could move, how could you be certain the behavioral logic you assigned would actually make it move?”

Allen sat in his chair, lost in thought—he felt a faint spark of insight flickering in his mind.