From the Diaries of Minerva McGonagall: December 15, 1955

Dear Diary,

I just finished marking all of my students’ written exams. They have the practical exam tomorrow, and I suspect most of them will pass it. I hope they will, anyway. If they don’t, it would be my fault as much as theirs!

There are two students whom I worry about; one of them doesn’t seem to try, which is bad enough, but the other one does, which is worse. Not everyone has to be good at transfiguration, of course, it’s not the kind of skill one uses in everyday life, but it seems a shame to be invited to Hogwarts and not want to learn everything about witchcraft and wizardry.

But I think my student who doesn’t try—the one who sits in the back and halfheartedly waves his wand, delighted if his transfiguration efforts result in a snuffbox with one wiggling mouse leg—doesn’t see it that way. To him, Hogwarts is not a surprise or an honor or even an invitation. It’s something that happened because he turned eleven.

I wonder if I would have approached Hogwarts differently if I had always known it existed. To me the magical world was a daily discovery of possibility. If I had grown up watching my parents call out accio commands or transfigure small items, would I have been so eager to learn them myself? I’d like to think I would, but then I remind myself that in all my years of watching my father preach weekly sermons, I never tried to write one of my own.

Then there’s the student who does try, but can’t manage it. I’ve gone over the steps with him so many times, and I’ve always made sure he’s paired off with a more capable student (even though I see the looks they give me, thinking I’m passing my teaching burden onto them). There must be a reason why he can’t successfully transfigure his snuffbox. Maybe he doesn’t have the right wand. I know some of the students get sent over with hand-me-down wands from siblings, the parents not minding that it’ll make everything they do harder. I don’t know why you wouldn’t buy your child a new wand. Those parents must also see Hogwarts as “something you do when you turn eleven,” not the chance to get an education that will change the rest of your life.

Maybe I should tell my students that, at the beginning of next term. We teach transfiguration because we can use these spells to transform objects, but we also teach it because, through the discipline of learning the spells, we can transform ourselves.

Also I’ll do the cat thing again. They always like to see that. I’ll have to begin every term from now on as a cat, sitting on the desk before leaping off into my human form.

It seems funny to think of “every term from now on,” as if I will teach this class until I am as old as Professor Dumbledore! But I don’t ever want to do anything else. If Hogwarts lets me stay, I’ll be the best teacher I can be.

No—I’ll be the best teacher it’s ever had.

Yours faithfully,

Minerva

Previously in The Diaries of Minerva McGonagall

McGonagall GETS IT. Did you love this?