Harry Potter: The Soldier of Hogwarts

The clink of cutlery and quiet murmur of voices filled the Great Hall as students filtered in for lunch, the warm scent of roasted meat and baked potatoes lingering in the air.

At the Slytherin table, however, the atmosphere buzzed with a different kind of energy—tense, electric, and charged with rumor.

"He actually stabbed himself!" murmured Theo Nott, leaning in toward Blaise Zabini as he delicately sliced into a piece of roast beef.

"With a Lumos blade, no less," Blaise replied, voice low and laced with equal parts disbelief and reluctant admiration. "Foolish. Brilliant. Suicidal. But it worked. Not a scratch on him."

Across from them, Draco Malfoy scowled.

"He just wanted attention," he sneered, stabbing his sausage with more force than necessary. "Probably rigged the spell. Smoke and mirrors. All flash, no substance."

"Still," drawled Pansy Parkinson, flipping her dark hair over one shoulder as she examined her reflection in a spoon, "even you didn't think of turning Lumos into a weapon, Draco."

"Because it's idiotic," he snapped. "Light magic isn't meant to be weaponized."

Theo raised a brow. "Says the boy who tried to hex a Gryffindor first-year for stepping on his shoes."

Blaise smirked, and Draco's cheeks flushed pink.

Meanwhile, at the Hufflepuff table, the conversation was just as animated—though tinged more with concern than gossip.

"He really stabbed himself!" asked Ernie Macmillan, looking stunned as he leaned closer to Hannah Abbott.

"Straight through the palm," Hannah confirmed, wide-eyed. "The blade was glowing like a Patronus. I thought he'd gone mad!"

Susan Bones looked up from her plate, her expression thoughtful. "But he didn't bleed. Not even a mark."

"That's what's scary," said Megan Jones, nervously fidgeting with her fork. "Either he's ridiculously powerful… or completely crazy."

At the Gryffindor table, the rumors had just reached full boil.

"What do you mean he stabbed himself!?" Rose Potter asked sharply, turning to Lyra Black, who was casually sipping pumpkin juice beside her.

"Literally," Lyra said with a slight grin, flicking her long dark hair over her shoulder. "He conjured a blade made of pure light and jammed it into his own palm. Right in front of the entire Charms class. Like some sort of dramatic ritual."

Harry, in the middle of pouring pumpkin juice into his goblet, froze. The pitcher tilted, dangerously close to spilling over the edge. "He did what?"

"Is he mental?" Ron Weasley exclaimed from across the table, his mouth already half-full of toast. "That's got to be against, like, three school rules."

"At least," Hermione muttered, flipping through a Charms theory book she had already been reading during breakfast. "A Lumos construct strong enough to hold physical form is extremely unstable magic. Theoretical, really. There's no proper documentation on safe applications."

"Yet he made one?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Right in front of Professor Flitwick," Lyra said, her eyes glinting mischievously. "Though I don't think the Professor appreciated the drama. I heard He looked ready to faint."

"Where is he, anyway?" Harry asked, glancing down the rows of long tables in the Great Hall. "He's not at the Slytherin table."

The others looked as well. The green-and-silver banners hung proudly over the Slytherin table, but Ryan was nowhere to be seen.

"Do you know where he is, Lyra?" Rose asked, giving her friend a narrowed look. "You said you talked to him this morning."

Lyra shrugged, popping a grape into her mouth. "I did. We had breakfast together briefly. Headmaster D was there early, too. But I don't know where he went after. He disappeared before most students even came down."

Harry looked skeptical. "Odd. Why was Professor Dumbledore here?"

"No clue," Lyra said, smirking slightly. "But you'll see Ryan later. We've got Transfiguration with the Snakes, remember?"

She brought her cup to her lips, failing to completely hide a mischievous grin.

Rose narrowed her eyes. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, nothing," Lyra replied with feigned innocence, though her grin betrayed her thoughts. In her mind, she recalled the prank she had pulled that morning—enchanting a magically adhesive mustache on Ryan's upper lip without him noticing.

'Still surprised he didn't catch it,' she thought smugly. 'I wonder if anyone else noticed.'

The Gryffindors arrived outside the Transfiguration classroom with books under one arm and wands in hand. The enchanted stone hallway hummed softly as if infused with the residual magic of countless spells cast over centuries. Students murmured among themselves as the large oak door creaked open by itself, revealing the classroom within.

Inside, rows of desks had already begun filling up. Slytherin students sat together in the middle and back rows, their green-trimmed robes blending like a coordinated wave of superiority and suspicion. Some turned to glance at the new arrivals with the usual disdainful curiosity.

But murmurs quickly shifted away from the incoming Gryffindors.

They shifted to the front row—where Ryan Ashford was already seated.

Alone.

He sat cross-legged on his chair, not lounging, not fidgeting, but meditating. His back was perfectly straight, hands resting atop his knees, palms facing upward. His wand lay across the desk in front of him, glowing faintly at the tip with a pulsing magical aura that responded to the gentle rhythm of his breathing.

His eyes were closed, brows slightly furrowed in focus, but his expression was calm. His robes, though unembellished, seemed to fall naturally around him like a well-placed cloak on a portrait. Even among the often proud Slytherins, Ryan didn't look like he was trying to impress anyone.

He just existed.

And somehow, that made everyone pay attention.

Lyra froze mid-step, elbowing Rose and gesturing with her chin. "Oh... look. There he is."

The others followed her gaze and spotted Ryan instantly. Harry's brow rose. Hermione paused, mid-sentence, her eyes narrowing in curiosity.

And Lyra? Lyra made her way to the front casually, wand twirling between her fingers, the grin on her face returning as she leaned in for a closer look.

"Pfft—" she choked on a laugh, quickly stifling it with the back of her hand.

The mustache was still there.

Perfectly curled at the ends, absurdly bold, and utterly out of place on Ryan's otherwise stoic face.

How is no one pointing that out? she wondered. Did they all just accept it?

Still meditating, Ryan seemed entirely unaware or perhaps simply unbothered. His breathing remained steady and measured, unfazed by the quiet snickers beginning to ripple through the front rows. The magical aura around him pulsed faintly in rhythm with each exhale, suggesting a deep, practiced focus.

Lyra slid into the seat beside him on the right, biting her lower lip to suppress another fit of laughter. The enchanted mustache she had sneakily placed on his upper lip earlier that morning was still very much in place. It wobbled slightly with every breath he took, making the scene unintentionally comical especially considering how stoic and composed he looked in his meditative trance.

Rose took the seat to Lyra's right, giving her a sidelong glance. "You're still grinning. What did you do?"

"Nothing," Lyra whispered innocently, eyes still fixed on Ryan's oblivious face.

Just then, a soft meow echoed through the classroom.

Atop the teacher's desk sat a regal tabby cat, its green eyes gleaming with intelligence and stern authority. It stretched, flicked its tail, and leapt gracefully down into the air—transforming mid-leap in a shimmer of pale blue light.

The cat's shape elongated, limbs twisting and extending into human form. Fur gave way to fabric, resolving into a dark green tartan robe. In mere moments, the familiar figure of Professor Minerva McGonagall stood before them, arms folded and her expression as formidable as ever.

A hush fell over the classroom. Chairs straightened. Backs stiffened.

"Good Evening," she said crisply, her Scottish accent cutting cleanly through the air. "Wands out. Books open. Eyes forward."

Her eyes swept across the classroom like a hawk surveying its prey. A few Gryffindor fumbled with their wands; some Slytherins looked away, clearly caught mid-whisper. Her gaze, however, paused ever so slightly when it landed on Ryan still cross-legged, eyes closed, radiating quiet power like a monk amid chaos.

"To those of you who are new to my class, welcome," she continued, pacing slowly before the desks. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress, Head of Gryffindor House, and your instructor in Transfiguration."

She stopped in front of the blackboard and turned back toward the students, eyes sharp as a blade.

"Transfiguration is not a subject for the faint of heart. It is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic taught at this school. It demands precision, focus, and above all—respect."

Her voice rang through the room like a commandment from the high altar of magical academia.

"Transfiguration is not waving your wand and hoping for the best," she continued, pacing again. "A miscast spell in this discipline can result in permanent consequences. Injuries. Disfigurement. And in the most tragic of cases—irreversible transformation."

A chill swept the room. Even the more smug Slytherins sat straighter.

She halted near the front row again, and this time, she faced Ryan directly.

"And in rare cases," she said, her voice cooling to a lower octave, "students take it upon themselves to experiment with advanced magical techniques outside the safety of their curriculum."

Her words weren't accusatory—at least not openly—but the weight behind them was unmistakable. Every student in the room turned to glance at Ryan, who remained as still as stone, his expression calm and unreadable beneath the enchanted mustache.

Lyra leaned back slightly, trying to look as innocent as possible. Rose, on the other hand, watched McGonagall closely, noting the way the professor's eyes lingered on Ryan for a beat too long.

He Didn't twitch.

Didn't even moved.

Was he dead?

Lyra leaned back in her seat beside him, lips twitching as she fought the rising tide of laughter. Beside her, Rose raised a brow, watching Professor McGonagall with the focus of a hawk ready to take notes on every micro-expression.

McGonagall, however, was no stranger to dramatics. She stared at Ryan. Then spoke.

"Mr. Ryan."

Silence.

Ryan did not stir. His breathing remained steady—slow and methodical, like a statue pretending to meditate or a monk impersonating a statue.

McGonagall's brow twitched.

"Mr. Ryan, wake up."

Still nothing.

A low sigh escaped her lips, the kind that carried years of professional restraint and the quiet suffering of a teacher forced to deal with magical teenagers daily.

Then, with an elegant wave of her wand, she pointed to the wooden podium beside her—and transfigured it.

The shift was instantaneous.

The wood twisted and writhed, bending into shape, fur sprouting as claws clicked against stone. What once was a podium now stood a massive lion, full-bodied and fierce, golden mane shimmering with magical power and judgmental authority.

And then—

ROAR.

The lion lunged forward, its massive paws striking the floor with thunderous force as it bared its enchanted fangs and launched itself directly at Ryan.

Ryan's eyes shot open. 

Instant battlefield reflexes snapped into place like a switchblade.

"GET DOWN MISTER PRESIDENT!!!!"

The room descended into pure chaos.

Before anyone could move, Ryan's hands flew into his robe, pulling out two silver throwing knives that no one had seen him hide. He hurled them in an arc so fast the air whistled. One slammed into the lion's eye, the other straight into its mouth—both vanishing in a shimmer as the illusion dissolved midair.

He wasn't finished.

"SMOKE GRENADE!!" he shouted, yanking his wand off the table.

With a single flick, a cloud of thick black smoke erupted from the wand's tip like a volcanic blast. The classroom was instantly swallowed in an inky fog.

Screams erupted.

Chairs toppled.

Someone (likely Seamus) shouted, "I CAN'T SEE! I'M BLIND!"

Another voice somewhere screamed, "MY EYE! I'VE LOST MY EYE!"

(It was just his glasses.)

Ryan, in full survival mode, dove for the student to his right—Lyra Black—and in one fluid motion, wrapped his forearm around her neck and yanked her up like a hostage shield.

"CIVILIAN SECURED! MOVING TO EXTRACTION!" he barked, voice gruff and commanding as if he were leading a SWAT team through enemy territory.

"Wha—HEY!" Lyra struggled in his grasp, coughing from the smoke but also choking on Ryan's hold. "I'm not a civilian, you twit—"

"QUIET! You'll draw the beast's attention!" Ryan hissed, eyes scanning wildly through the haze. He began moving backward toward the door, dragging Lyra with military precision.

Professor McGonagall, coughing lightly through the smoke, barely got a glimpse of Ryan moving like a stealth operative through the chaos.

Somewhere in the fog, a first-year passed out.

Neville had tripped over his own foot and rolled halfway under a desk.

Rose had tried casting Ventus to clear the smoke but accidentally knocked over three students.

Ryan reached the door.

Without hesitation, he kicked it open with enough force to send it slamming into the stone wall.

"GO! GO! GO!"

With one final motion, he shoved Lyra forward through the doorway—then darted out into the hall himself, vanishing like a ghost in the fog.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The classroom was silent for a second… then erupted with confused, coughing students trying to process what in Merlin's name had just happened.

McGonagall stood, wand raised, and with a firm swish, vanished the smoke in a swirl of magic.

Every eye turned toward the front row, now conspicuously empty—save for a slightly scorched chair, a toppled desk, and two deep knife gouges in the wooden podium where Ryan had launched his blades.

Professor McGonagall slowly stepped forward, her gaze falling to the floor where the knives had landed. She stared at the knives in silence.

Then she looked up.

Then at the class.

"…Five points from Gryffindor," she muttered dryly—despite the fact that Ryan wasn't even in Gryffindor.

"Wait—he's not even in our house!" Rose blurted out in protest.

"And fifteen from Slytherin," McGonagall added with the weary sigh of someone quietly reconsidering her career choices.

Lyra, reentering with a cough and a laugh, held her ribs.

"That—was the best start to Transfiguration I've ever had."

A/N: I've just released a new fanfic titled Harry Potter: The Beast Wizard  Feel free to check it out if you're interested in more of my work. As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting my stories — it means a lot!