Though he couldn’t practice it yet, Erwin committed the Animagus technique to mory. It might prove useful one day. In the wizarding world, more skills ant better odds of survival—and with the System’s aid, he needn’t worry about spreading himself too thin. Mastery would co with ti.
What intrigued him most was the spell’s origin. Rowena Ravenclaw herself? He’d never read of her excelling in Transfiguration, and Animagi were rare even among magical creatures. Only one figure ca to mind who could pull off such feats: rlin, with his legendary seventy-two transformations. But this was the British wizarding world, steeped in its own lore, not so tale from ancient folklore. Erwin remained wary of the booklet’s claims.
Spells demanded caution, like handling potent potions—one wrong move, and disaster followed. He needed a test subject, soone expendable if things went awry. His own allies were out of the question. Enemies, then? A na surfaced: Ron Weasley. But Erwin shook his head. Ron was no scholar; expecting him to grasp Animagus transformation was like asking a troll to solve a riddle.
With a sigh, Erwin shelved the idea. He’d find a suitable candidate later—talented, but expendable. For now, he leaned back in his chair, turning to the pressing matter: escaping this bizarre trial.
"No hints at all?" he muttered, drumming his fingers on the table.
Ravenclaw’s ethereal form, observing from the shadows, shifted uncomfortably, a faint flush of embarrassnt crossing her features.
Erwin scanned the study, probing for overlooked details. His gaze settled on the scattered bookmarks atop the desk. In a room of ticulous logic, they stood out as oddly out of place.
He plucked one up and gave it a gentle shake. It chid twice, crisp and tallic.
"Hm," Erwin murmured. "This doesn’t feel right."
Laying it flat, he traced the intricate patterns etched into its surface. Monts later, his eyes widened. "Could these be... Billywig wings?"
mories from the first book he’d examined flooded back. Billywigs were small, sapphire-blue insects native to Australia. They possessed wings on their heads, save for their wings: gossar-thin yet unbreakable, ideal for permanent inscriptions. Ink on Billywig wings endured forever, unyielding to ti or wear—as long as the material remained intact.
That initial bookmark had co from the very first volu he’d pulled from the shelf. Erwin lifted it again, flipping to the edge. There, in tiny script: 6-103.
Just numbers. He grabbed another: 9-132.
Stroking his chin, Erwin glanced at the bookshelf. In the dim light, he spotted subtle engravings—numbers protruding from the wood.
Excitent sparked. He hurried over, fingers gliding across the carvings. Sure enough, they matched: row 6, shelf 103; row 9, shelf 132.
Spreading the bookmarks across the table, he noted that only so bore numbers; the rest were blank. A puzzle, then. The numbered ones pointed to specific books, likely hiding clues.
His logic seed solid. But as Erwin laid them out, a groan escaped him. He’d already ransacked the shelves, pulling volus at random. Recalling which bookmark belonged where? Impossible.
From her vantage, Ravenclaw sighed in quiet exasperation. "The boy’s sharp, but he’s veered off course from the start. Who designs a trial expecting soone to scour every to? Wisdom should cut through the clutter. Most would spot the bookmark’s uniqueness and probe its purpose. This one’s no stranger to shortcuts. I’ll grant three more days—the magic sustaining this chamber is fading."
In the study, Erwin’s expression soured. If not for that Muggle tale of rlin’s legend, he might never have fixated on such a convoluted path. The humble bookmark, dismissed at first, now dangled as the key to victory.
He exhaled sharply. The tos had already enriched his knowledge imasurably, but he teetered on the brink of Ravenclaw’s true legacy. Failure gnawed at him.
Staring at the emptied shelves, helplessness crept in. A Finite Incantatem to reset everything? Unfeasible. The spell’s drain scaled with the area’s size and the lapse in ti—restoring the study to its entry state would exhaust reserves far beyond his. Even draining his spare magical sources, he couldn’t manage it.
"Stumped by this?" Erwin grumbled to himself. As a wizard thrust into this world, he refused to yield.
His mind whirred. If the numbers keyed specific texts, they must denote phrases or passages—subtle variances from standard editions, the trial’s linchpin.
Sweeping most bookmarks to the floor, he retained the bottom one. Then, from the pile of discarded volus, he retrieved Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them .
Flipping to page 103 in section 6, Erwin read intently, the bookmark’s numbers burning in his thoughts. The words blurred into potential secrets, each line a thread in Ravenclaw’s intricate web. He wouldn’t stop now—not when the founder’s wisdom lay just beyond reach.
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