Transfigurations and Truths: Whispers in the House of Myrddin

Myrddin ManorJune 26, 1988

Last night was interesting, to say the least.

After we got back from King's Cross Station, Grandfather told me to take an hour, get some rest, and think through everything from the past year. He said to write down any doubts or concerns I had so we could go over them in order—"Clear head, clear eyes," he told me.

So there we were, in his study, soft moonlight creeping through the windows. Percival L. Myrddin—Master of Wards, decorated duelist, and the most quietly dangerous man I know—was leaning back in his favorite chair, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He poured a second cup for me, then gestured for me to begin.

"You look like someone handed you a map with no north," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Was Hogwarts that rough?"

I huffed a short laugh. "Not rough. Just… strange. Some parts were incredible. Others? Gave me a bad feeling."

"Go on, then. Let's hear it," he said, folding one leg over the other. "Start with McGonagall. Still sharp as a tack, I hope."

I nodded. "Absolutely. Stern but fair. She doesn't tolerate nonsense, but she's never cruel. She controls a room without raising her voice. I respect her—more than most anyone I'm not related to."

Percival's eyes softened, and a faint smile crept across his face. "Minne was your gran's student, back when she was chasing her masteries. Early twenties, fierce as a phoenix in a storm. I remember watching her duel once—Transfiguration so fluid and fast it made the rest of us look like we were standing still. Don't go letting her hear you call her that, though."

"You dueled her?"

"Not formally. She used to ask for practice rounds in the training yards. Caught me off guard one day—turned a stunner into a chain of animated spears mid-air. I barely had time to throw up a shield. Humbled me, that's for sure."

I chuckled. "Sounds about right."

He took a sip of his coffee. "She's only gotten sharper, then. Good. Comforting to know the system hasn't dulled her edge."

I leaned forward a little, resting my elbows on the table. "Honestly? She's not alone. Flitwick's the best professor I've ever had. Period. Brilliant, engaging, and somehow manages to make half the class feel like they're geniuses. Charms was a highlight."

Percival gave a satisfied nod. "Filius is one of the few who can balance theory and application. And herbology?"

"Professor Sprout's underrated. Everyone assumes she's soft, but I've seen her type my entire life. She's got steel in her and it's sharp. I think people mistake kindness for weakness."

"That mistake gets people killed," Percival said plainly. "What about the rest?"

"Snape's… complicated. He's brilliant with potions, no question. Knows the subject material like he authored it himself. But he couldn't teach a dog to bark. Makes it hard to justify his even being there."

"He's not one I know well," Percival admitted. "Joined the staff within the last 10 years around the end of the war."

I gave a slow nod. "The Defense professor seemed competent, but he kept getting injured. Pretty seriously, too. Messed with his ability to teach consistently."

"Curse on the post," Percival said. "Started sometime in the mid '60s. Nasty bit of work—no one's managed to break it. They just deny it is even there."

"Figures. Binns, the History ghost, is another story. He doesn't just drone—he feels… artificial. It's like he's there to keep us numb, not informed. Like he's reciting a script someone wrote centuries ago. I don't know how to explain it."

"Hm."

"Hooch taught us to fly. She's solid. The Astronomy professor's fine—just had us charting stars most nights. Nothing special, but it got the job done."

"And that's the concern, isn't it?" Percival leaned forward, voice quieter now. "Some of them are brilliant. The rest sound like they're coasting."

"Exactly. Half the school's operating at world-class levels. The rest? Earnin a pay check. Except Binns. I've almost convinced myself he's been trapped there."

Percival exhaled slowly. "You're not wrong. Standards have slipped over the years. There's a widening gap between expectation and execution—especially outside the core subjects. Not to mention the dropped electives, moving courses that used to be mandatory to elective positions only taught to third years and beyond."

"You think something's behind it?"

"I think some people are working very hard to make sure we don't notice how far things have fallen. Or who's letting it happen." His gaze sharpened. "And I think you're beginning to notice the difference."

"I've been watching," I said quietly. "There's more going on at that school than most of the students realize."

Percival met my eyes, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke."Then you're seeing what most adults won't admit to."

"Good," he continued. "Then let's talk about it. Start from at the beginning."

.....

I tapped my fingers against the side of my mug, trying to find the words.

"There's something else. It wasn't just the professors—it was the students. By spring, something felt… off."

Percival gave a small nod, encouraging me to continue.

"At the start of the year, people had quirks. Texture. You'd meet a Slytherin who told jokes under his breath, a Gryffindor who got nervous speaking in groups, a Ravenclaw who loved Quidditch more than books. Everyone was more than their House. But as time went on..."

I paused, searching for the right phrasing.

"It was like those other parts got turned down. Not erased. Just... muted. Background noise. The House traits didn't just get louder—they started crowding everything else out."

Percival's eyes narrowed. "They weren't changing. Just being reduced."

"Exactly. It's like they were being tuned—like someone kept adjusting the station knob on their personalities until only the 'right' frequencies were left."

I glanced down at my cup, then back up. "I wouldn't have noticed it, honestly. I might've just thought it was kids finding their place. But Penelope noticed too."

"Clearwater?"

I nodded. "She's sharp, honestly she noticed before I did. One of the few people I trust to see what's really in front of her. We talked about it maybe three times. Quietly. She's careful. Real careful."

Percival leaned back, eyes far away. "And the others?"

"They didn't see it. Not even the Ravenclaws. If anything, they leaned harder into the pattern. The more 'House-like' someone acted, the more praise they got from their peers. From the professors, even. It wasn't just accepted—it was expected, even the point loss."

"And no one questioned it?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Not that I could find. Except…" I hesitated. "There's a pattern. The ones who kept a sense of balance—who didn't blur so much—they all had something in common."

Percival raised an eyebrow. "Occlumency."

"Yeah. Every time. Many older first generation and second generation students use it. Penelope does too, since I loaned her a book about it on the train. And we were the only ones who noticed how strange things were getting."

He was quiet a long moment.

"That's off," he said at last. "In my time, the old families insisted on Occlumency by second or third year at the latest. So their children wouldn't be easy marks for Legilimency or emotional tampering."

"These days it's the opposite. Most of the third-gen-plus kids—purebloods included—don't practice it at all. They either don't know how, or they've been told it's dangerous. Outdated. One even said it was 'anti-community.' Like keeping your mind private was somehow selfish."

Percival snorted. "That's new. And disturbing."

"But first- and second-gen kids? Several of them learn it. Not in class. Not officially. Just little family methods. Breathing tricks, memory routines, discipline hacks. It's not standardized, but it helps."

He nodded slowly. "And those are the ones resisting the shift."

"Only ones I've found."

We sat in silence a beat longer.

"I don't think it's full-on mind control," I said finally. "But something in that castle's pressing down on us. Not hard—just… steady. Like water shaping stone. You only notice it if you fight against the current."

Percival's voice dropped low. "And most of them are drifting with it."

"Worse," I said. "Most are grateful for it."

....

Percival set his mug down with a soft clink. "Could be environmental—long-term enchantments tied to the House dorms or Common Rooms. Old runes, passive charms, even the architecture itself. Hogwarts breathes magic, and if someone twisted that flow just a little, over decades... it could shape behavior without anyone noticing."

He stood, crossing to the window. "It's not the Sorting Hat. I won't hear it. That thing's bound to the Founders' original charter and has protections layered deeper than Gringotts vaults. If someone's pushing this shift, it's happening after the Sorting—either through the castle's passive wards or something added later. Maybe rituals keyed to House traits. Subtle pressure, not compulsion."

Turning back, his expression hardened. "Or it's external. Someone benefits from the Houses staying divided—rivalries sharpened, cooperation dulled. If Occlumency shields students from it, then we're likely looking at low-level legilimency fields, ambient compulsion magic, maybe even cursed objects embedded in each House. It doesn't need to be strong, just... familiar. Comfortable enough that no one questions it."

...

"There's something else," I said, watching Percival pace. "Some of the older students aren't just resisting the House pressure—they're shielding on purpose. Using Occlumency, real techniques. Not the casual kind, either. I've seen posture tells, aura flattening, and eye discipline. These kids are trained, and they know what they're doing. Fourth years and up, mostly. A few in each House. They don't talk openly, but there's this… awareness. Like they're working together—or at least aware of the same threat. They sit near each other sometimes, move in similar patterns. Not friends, exactly, but... close. Like a network that doesn't need words."

Percival's gaze sharpened. "So not just passive resistance. Intentional, selective. Possibly coordinated.""Exactly," I nodded. "But they're watching each other, too. Like there's a line even among them they don't cross. I tried probing once—light conversation, just to see. One of them shut it down fast. Changed the subject, but not before giving me a look like he was calculating something. I don't know if I spooked him or passed a test. Either way… I think I'm on someone's radar."

Returning to his seat, Percival steepled his fingers in thought, "You've given me a lot to think about. Was there anything else?"

"There's also the assistant professor in Runes and Arithmancy. Doesn't teach our year—those subjects don't start 'til third—but he's around. Lurks at the edge of faculty meetings, always listening, always moving like he's just remembered something important. Tall and wiry, hair like he combs it with a fork, and he wears No-Maj clothes under his robes—slacks, button shirts, even a tie some days. And No-Maj tennis shoes. Red and white Converse high tops, real flashy, like he forgot which world he was in when he got dressed. Nobody else seems to think it's weird. They just treat him like he belongs."

I paused, fingers tightening around my mug."He's brilliant—I'm sure of it. But the way he talks doesn't make sense right away. Like he's five thoughts ahead and only halfway translating them into words the rest of us can understand. I saw him talking to a portrait once—one of the old ones, dusty frame, doesn't usually speak. But when he leaned in, it snapped to attention and whispered something, real quiet, like they were passing secrets. Then it froze up the second I got close. He smiles a lot, makes jokes, but it feels like a mask. There's something in his eyes—like he's watching everything, putting pieces together I don't even see yet."

"Said his name is the Doctor."

.....

He raised an eyebrow, then stood and stretched."Sounds like the sort who ends up in the footnotes."

Grandfather didn't say much else—just tilted his head like the name had brushed past an old memory. Then he shrugged and nodded toward the west shelf."Pull down Folklore and Forgotten Figures. Should be wedged between the Love Potions manual I'm not allowed to touch and the dueling diary your gran still claims Minnie cheated in. Read up on legends that don't stay put."