So that's it… No wonder… And yet, so simple.
The tangled haze that had long troubled Ian suddenly dispersed, as if silently driven away. He perceived that the road ahead wasn't just a path climbing toward the summit—
it also unveiled, beyond the parting clouds, the panorama of sky above.
"A wizard is a god…"
Apparently, the statement compared wizards to beings of divine power—like gods bestowing rules upon matter, a task that, by all logic, came naturally to them.
"If we're indeed granting new rules, then why do transfigurations eventually wear off…?"
Ian kept that question to himself.
Because in the next second, the answer came to him on its own.
A wizard is a god—here, "god" refers to the wizard's innate magic. Magic belongs to the wizard, a tremendous power inherent to the self.
Any form of bending matter or assigning new forms relies on the wizard's magic—like a "god" warping and rewriting the creator's design.
So long as that magic remains in contact with the transfigured object, new rules override the old ones. Hence, the wizard can alter anything at will.
But—
once separated from the wizard, magic inevitably depletes and dissipates—perhaps due to reality's self-correcting nature or some other factor.
When that animating magic vanishes, the new rules it imposed likewise fade, revealing the object's original form. Lily Potter's transfigurations, for instance, vanished the moment she died, for the source of her magic no longer existed.
Even if that magic had not yet fully drained,
the transformation could not continue without its caster.
"Maybe it isn't depletion but rather the magic…returning?"
Ian realized he could only test that notion if he successfully cast a transfiguration:
"Vera Verto!"
He raised his wand once more and targeted the matchstick on his desk.
This time, he set aside all complicated thought, imagining himself as a creator.
[Transfiguration successfully cast!]
[Transfiguration Level Up!]
[Transfiguration successfully cast!]
[Transfiguration Level Up!]
Ian's status panel flickered, and so did the matchstick on his desk. It turned into a fine iron needle, decorated with delicate filigree patterns.
"Brilliantly done—exquisite casting, a flawless realization!"
Even though Professor McGonagall had sensed something was bound to happen, she still couldn't help exclaiming in admiration as she beheld Ian's result.
Indeed, it appeared the Sorting Hat had not erred.
Could he be Rowena Ravenclaw's heir, a thousand years apart…? Such brilliance!
"Ian, that's amazing!"
Michael cheered, giving a round of applause. Seeing him lead, other students joined in—whether willingly or not. After all, in the Eagle and Badger Houses, any student's success was a cause for camaraderie rather than jealousy.
"Professor, what did you just write?"
"Was it a secret trick for Transfiguration?"
"Ah, I missed it!"
Some Ravenclaw "eaglets" looked annoyed; they felt they had missed out on an exclusive teaching moment, perplexed by the talk McGonagall had shared with Ian.
"Thank you, Professor. I think I've grasped it—but it hasn't solved all my questions,"
Ian said politely, showing gratitude for her guidance.
Then, he glanced at the slender needle on his desk, his mind turning inward once more.
"Transfiguration is endless study, but you've done well for now,"
Professor McGonagall noted, moving on to help others who had yet to succeed in their transformations.
The classroom bustled with activity.
Many students who'd completed the assigned transformation tried repeatedly undoing and redoing their spells, while Ian continued to stare at his needle.
"A portion of my magic has gone dormant, but it's still within me…"
He sensed the connection he now shared with the needle on his desk.
Indeed, though his magic hadn't been "used up," its "influence" still clung to that needle's shape, maintaining it. He could clearly sense that if he severed that bond, a sliver of his magic would reawaken, but the "influence" acting on the matchstick would vanish in turn.
The needle would revert to a matchstick.
No question there.
"Each bit of magic's ability to 'influence' is limited. The more I impose that influence on reality, the more magic invests itself into the world's fabric."
"A wizard's magic level determines how much 'influence' a given unit of magic can carry. That's why higher magic levels mean more potent spells."
On the very first day, Ian's comprehension of magic deepened considerably.
Of course, that didn't mean his prior view was entirely wrong—merely that he'd come at it from the wrong angle, never glimpsing the deeper essence of magic. This was also tied to the nature of what he'd studied before:
Existing spells, all gleaned from others' work.
They represented established results that could be followed to replicate the knowledge previous wizards had discovered. Ian had never really ventured beyond spells that already existed.
Whether incantations or ancient runes,
they served to harness the magic's influence and guide it toward specific, predetermined outcomes:
Avada Kedavra pointed toward death.
Incendio pointed toward flames.
So it went.
In learning these methods,
Ian had recognized the limitations of incantations, and he suspected ancient runes offered broader possibilities. But he still overlooked the fact that magic itself signified unlimited potential.
"Incantations, runes…they're only tools, only conduits,"
he mused, clarity blossoming in his mind.
Indeed, as McGonagall had said, the wizard's magic was the root of "godhood." Wielding influence—that was the true path to reach the heavens.
"Vera Verto!"
To validate his epiphany, Ian cast the incantation again. The iron needle on his desk began to shift, as if being peeled layer by layer into wisps of green smoke.
"Wow, that's smoke! So cool!"
"It's the same color as my sister's knickers this morning!"
Gasps erupted around him.
But at the sound of alarm, Professor McGonagall whipped around, her stern face at once transforming into horror. Without hesitation, she raised her wand:
"Finite Transfiguration!"
The powerful spell instantly canceled out the swirling smoke, reverting it to its original matchstick.
"Huh?"
Ian felt the influence flood back into him. Looking up, he saw the formerly genial McGonagall stalking over like an enraged lioness:
"Mr. Prince, Azkaban has no age restriction!"
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