Transfiguration
McGonagall's classroom had the specific atmosphere of a subject that had its own standards and expected you to meet them. Not intimidating, exactly, but clear — the clarity of a space where sloppy thinking produced visible results and where those results would be noted and addressed without editorial.
She opened the third-year curriculum with Animagus theory, which was the appropriate starting point: Animagi were the most complex form of Transfiguration, and approaching the subject through its most demanding expression was McGonagall's way of establishing from the first lesson what the subject required. She covered the theoretical framework with the precise economy of someone who had been teaching this for decades and had identified the exact words that communicated exactly what needed to be communicated.
Ron took careful notes.
He had worked through the third-year Transfiguration theory over the summer, and the pensieve memories of the expert practitioner had given him a specific depth of understanding for the spellwork, but Transfiguration was the subject where the gap between theoretical understanding and practical fluency was most consistently visible in his own work. He knew why spells worked. The transition from knowing to doing with the specific consistency that the subject demanded was still work he was doing.
McGonagall noticed, over the first two weeks, that his theoretical contributions were solid and his practical work was improving faster than the class average. She did not say this aloud. She gave him the look that was her version of acknowledgement — brief, assessing, filed — and continued with the lesson.
He was not performing for her assessment. He was doing the work, and the work was producing results at its own rate, and that was correct.
The practical exercise on the second lesson was the standard third-year Switching Spell — a component swap between two different objects, which required the specific kind of controlled dual-focus that Transfiguration consistently demanded. He produced a clean result on the third attempt. The first two attempts showed him exactly where his limits were: he could see what the spell required and he could not yet produce it automatically. The third attempt produced it because he had adjusted the wand angle and slowed the intention component, and it worked.
He noted what had worked in his notebook and set it as the adjustment to practice.
McGonagall passed his desk without comment.
He took that as the correct response.
Charms
Charms with Flitwick was a class taught by someone who genuinely loved the subject and couldn't hide it. He was small enough that his desk was elevated and his voice was not, and the enthusiasm that arrived at his pitch when he demonstrated something that worked correctly was entirely genuine and entirely contagious.
Third-year Charms was introducing spell theory at a level that went deeper than the first two years had done — the structure beneath the structure, the way incantation and wand movement and intention interacted as a system rather than as separate components. Ron found this genuinely interesting. He had worked through the theoretical framework in the Room in the first weeks back, and the pensieve memories had given him a practical depth to sit alongside it, but Flitwick's explanations had a specific clarity that came from someone who had spent forty years thinking about how to communicate the mechanics of something they understood completely to people encountering it for the first time.
He sat in the front third of the class and took notes and raised his hand when he had something specific to contribute and not otherwise. The questions he asked were the kind that extended the topic rather than confirmed understanding — he already had the confirmation. What interested him was the edge of what Flitwick would say if the question was specific enough.
Flitwick answered one of these questions in the second week with the particular excited squeak of someone who had been waiting for a student to ask something genuinely interesting, and the answer occupied the last twelve minutes of the lesson and produced seventeen pages of additional notes across the class. Ron thought that this was one of the things teaching was for.
After the lesson, he stopped at Flitwick's desk.
"The question you asked last week," Flitwick said, before Ron could open his mouth, and produced a slim volume from somewhere in the architectural complexity of his desk. "This has the theoretical framework. Chapter seven specifically. I thought you might find it useful."
Ron looked at the title. It was a sixth-year supplementary text.
He looked at Flitwick.
Flitwick looked at him with the warm, unashamed enthusiasm of someone who had made a decision and was implementing it. "I find that students who are asking sixth-year questions at thirteen tend to benefit from having somewhere to put the answers," he said.
"Thank you, Professor," Ron said.
"Come back when you've read chapter seven," Flitwick said. "I have thoughts about chapter eight."