Professor McGonagall’s expression turned thoughtful. Erwin, anwhile, felt a spark of excitent—he’d stumbled onto a fascinating puzzle. He had a knack for these layered riddles, endless loops that begged to be unraveled. Why that was, he couldn’t say, but they drew him in like a moth to fla.
"So," Erwin ventured, "if that’s the case, what if I cast Transfiguration five tis on a matchstick until it becos exactly what I envision?"
As he spoke, he flicked his wand. The matchstick’s form shifted gradually, elongating and refining until it glead as a slender silver needle, etched with delicate patterns.
"Have I layered multiple Transfigurations to build the effect," Erwin continued, "or simply grown more skilled with each attempt—from barely altering half the match at first to perfecting it on the final cast?"
McGonagall paused, considering. "Mr. Cavendish, that’s a question I haven’t truly pondered. But it’s an intriguing one."
With a swift wave of her wand, she demonstrated. The silver needle shimred and reverted to a plain matchstick.
"Precisely!" Erwin exclaid. "I Transfigured it five tis, and now you’ve done it once more—that’s six in total. Yet it looks perfectly ordinary. Transfiguration must allow repeated casts without issue. And when you reversed it, did it truly return to its original state, or is it just another Transfigured form? If it’s the forr, does that imply every Transfiguration spell has its own incantation and counter?"
His eyes glead. This was magic’s true thrill—a delicious paradox.
McGonagall’s interest piqued. To her knowledge, no one at Hogwarts—or in the wider wizarding world—had ever frad it this way. She folded her arms, montarily forgetting the classroom around them as she mulled it over.
The first-years gawked in stunned silence.
"Is this really first-year Transfiguration?" one muttered.
"I must’ve wandered into the wrong room. A first-year debating theory with McGonagall? And it sounds downright advanced."
"Did anyone catch what Erwin just said?"
"Erwin said sothing? I didn’t hear a thing—it’s all Greek to ."
"He’s a proper Slytherin through and through," another whispered. "Forget the Muggle-born rumors. No one from that world grasps magic like this."
"Agreed. Bet he’s so secret heir from an old pure-blood line."
"Ooh, that’s a thought."
"Read the books yet?"
"What books?"
The class had veered entirely off course.
Harry Potter stared at Erwin, whispering to himself, "Is this what a real wizard sounds like? I haven’t understood a word."
He glanced at Ron, hoping his wizard-raised friend might make sense of it. But Ron sat there, jaw slack and eyes bulging, clearly as lost as anyone.
Harry sighed, already questioning his choice of company.
"Professor McGonagall," Erwin pressed, "could you try Finite Incantatem?"
She snapped back to the mont. "Of course! Brilliant idea."
Her wand tapped the matchstick lightly. Nothing happened.
McGonagall’s brow furrowed. As a Transfiguration master, counter-spells were second nature to her. Failure wasn’t an option.
The match remained stubbornly unchanged.
Erwin’s face lit up like he’d charted new territory. This proved it: Transfiguration wove magic and counter-magic into one intricate spell.
"Mr. Cavendish," McGonagall said, her voice laced with awe, "you’ve hit on sothing extraordinary. If this holds under scrutiny, the rewards will be beyond your imagining."
"You’re wrong about that, Professor," Erwin replied. "I only spotted it because of your teaching."
She smiled warmly. Just then, the bell tolled, marking the lesson’s end.
McGonagall blinked, reality crashing in. The other students buzzed with chatter as they packed up. She let out a quiet sigh—Erwin’s insight only highlighted everyone else’s gaps. No comparison, no judgnt, but the contrast was stark.
"Class dismissed," she announced. "If you wish to practice, do so only with an older student supervising. No solo attempts—it’s far too risky."
The first-years nodded vigorously. Private practice? They’d sooner face a troll. They grumbled enough during lessons.
McGonagall eyed them knowingly. At least safety was assured. Such compliant students made her job straightforward.
As the room emptied, she turned to Erwin. "Mr. Cavendish, I’m off to speak with Professor Dumbledore. You clearly have a gift for Transfiguration—and a curiosity to match. If you’re keen, stop by my office after your next class. We can delve deeper into your theory."
Erwin’s pulse quickened. Private guidance from McGonagall? That was gold.
"I’d love to," he said. "If it’s no imposition."
"Not at all," she replied with a chuckle. "I’m eager to continue."
He nodded, beaming.
"Oh, and your Potions lesson starts soon," she added. "Best not dawdle."
Erwin’s enthusiasm deflated. Potions. With Snape.
The thought of the old bat’s sneer made him gulp. Late to that class? He’d be hexed on the spot.
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