She was a misfit, he was a git.
Matilda Diggory enters her fifth year of school, ready to remain as under the radar as possible, only there's a catch. She's somehow managed to catch the eye of a particularly annoying redhead, who seems hell-bent on...
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By late-November, the changing season brought a chill to the castle that had students tugging their robes closer to their bodies, trying to hold onto any warmth they could. Matilda sat near the back of the Transfiguration lesson, one leg stretched out to keep pressure off her aching hip, her fingers wrapped around the edge of the desk to keep herself grounded.
McGonagall's voice sliced through the quiet like a knife: sharp, deliberate. "Today, we will be discussing advanced human transfiguration—particularly as it pertains to concealment and self-preservation."
Matilda tried to focus, but the dull ache pulsing behind her ribs stole every ounce of her attention. Her bones throbbed like a second heartbeat, one that drummed out the steady march toward the full moon. It would arrive in two days, the night of the First Task. Already she felt the tightening of her tendons, the crawl of something animal beneath her skin.
McGonagall flicked her wand at the chalkboard. It sprang to life with tidy lines of script and diagrams. "There are spells that allow the temporary altering of your appearance, even your structure. But what happens when someone chooses to permanently alter their form? Who remembers the case of—"
"What about the Dark Mark?"
Fred.
His voice cut across the room. Matilda didn't need to look to know the exact shape of the grin he wore—half-charming, half-irreverent, entirely inappropriate for the topic at hand.
McGonagall's eyes snapped toward him. "Mr. Weasley, while I appreciate your enthusiasm for current events, this is not—"
"But we all saw it," he insisted, leaning forward. "At the World Cup. The skull and the snake. It—it was real. What kind of magic is that?"
Something twisted in Matilda's chest. Not just the pain. A memory. Flashes of fire against the sky. Screams. The mark floating above the trees like a scar carved into the night. Like the scars that dusted her very skin.
McGonagall didn't snap this time. She paused, her jaw tight. Her next words came slowly, as though weighing each one. "The Dark Mark is not a product of transfiguration, which is why your question is largely inappropriate for this class. It is a summoning spell—Dark Magic, old and deeply rooted in fear. The spell calls forth a symbol rather than transforming something."
"Could he come back?" Angelina asked, surprising Matilda. "Are there old forms of transfiguration that can return someone to life?"
"There is not," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "No magic can bring back the dead, old or new. Once the dead are resting, nothing can return their soul to this side of the veil." Her sharp gaze met each of the students. "No more of that. If your curiosity hasn't been satisfied, I encourage you to speak with Professor Moody instead of disrupting our lessons."
No one dared to object, and even Fred was sitting upright.
"Now, back to my question. Who remembers the case of Gwendolyn Kipp?"
