With those words, the young man vanished from sight.
Rowena Ravenclaw watched Erwin, immersed in his reading within the study, his expression distant and pensive. He lingered in silence for what felt like an eternity before letting out a heavy sigh. A shadow of profound sorrow clouded his eyes.
Erwin, oblivious to the passage of time, lost himself in the stacks of books. Piles grew steadily at his feet as days blurred into an endless routine: read, absorb, rest when exhaustion crept in, then return to the pages. This sanctuary offered far more comfort than the isolation of a cave—no gnawing hunger or creeping discomfort. Yet Erwin remained unchanged, still the boy he'd been upon entering. He couldn't help feeling a twinge of disappointment; he'd half-hoped to glimpse his future self, perhaps a sharper jawline or broader shoulders.
Before long, he'd devoured nearly every volume on the shelves. From arcane theories to practical spellwork, his mind brimmed with knowledge far beyond his first-year status. Seventh-years on the cusp of graduation paled in comparison. All that remained was to temper this intellect with real-world practice.
Each night, Erwin sifted through the day's harvest, committing spells and insights to memory. This trial had already proven invaluable—the wealth of lore alone justified the ordeal, inheritance or not. Bookmarks accumulated on the desk, discarded carelessly as he pressed on.
Time stretched on. Within the study's enchanted confines, Ravenclaw observed the fading magic enveloping the space, a knot of unease tightening in her chest. "This boy's unlike any other," she murmured to herself. "He's nearly through the entire collection—and with such patience? No child his age endures like this. You might just be the one to unravel it all. But your reserves are waning. Hurry, lad, or I'll have no choice but to pull you out."
At last, Erwin set down the final tome with a satisfied exhale. He had no notion of how many days had slipped by, only that the two towering bookshelves now stood barren. He'd covered everything: treatises on magical creatures, herbology guides, potion recipes. Two spellbooks in particular had expanded his arsenal—basic incantations now listed on his character panel, all at novice level. Spells like Scourgify and Alohomora came naturally now, etched into his reflexes.
In terms of sheer variety, Erwin could claim mastery over dozens of charms. Proficiency would follow with time and trial, but the foundation was set.
He leaned back in his chair, scanning the empty space. The bookshelves gaped hollow; the floor bore testament to his marathon. Freedom should have come by now. A frown creased his brow. Had he overlooked something?
His gaze drifted to the floor beside the table, where a slender booklet lay half-concealed in shadow. Erwin stooped to retrieve it, curiosity piqued. The cover was worn and unmarked, resembling a personal journal more than a formal text.
He cracked it open. "Animagus?" His eyes widened. He'd nearly missed it—the key to departure hidden in plain sight.
Flipping through the yellowed pages, Erwin's initial excitement gave way to confusion. The method outlined here diverged sharply from the traditional rite he recalled from hushed conversations and forbidden texts.
The orthodox path was a grueling gauntlet of precision and peril. One must clasp a mandrake leaf between the teeth for a full lunar cycle, never swallowing or dislodging it—any slip meant starting anew. At month's end, extract the leaf and capture one's saliva in a crystal phial, then submerge the leaf to soak under moonlight. A single cloudy night? Back to square one. Next came a strand of the practitioner's hair, blended with dew harvested from a sunless, untouched glade over seven days, and the pupa of a Death's-Head Hawk moth. Seal it away in darkness until a thunderstorm brewed.
On the storm's peak, direct your wand to your heart and intone: Amado, Animo, Animado, Animagus! If every step aligned flawlessly, a crimson potion emerged. Drink it, and the transformation took hold.
Tedious didn't begin to cover it—fraught with failure at every turn.
Yet this booklet proposed a radical shortcut. It substituted the mandrake leaf with essence from magical creatures, augmented by targeted potions to attune the body. Most startling: it claimed the ability to assume the form of a magical beast, not just a mundane animal.
Erwin's pulse quickened. Conventional wisdom held that Animagi couldn't mimic magical creatures; the clash of inherent magics would destabilize the shift, potentially fatal. He'd theorized as much himself, piecing it from scattered lore.
But here, the author dismissed that barrier outright, detailing infusions to harmonize the caster's magic with the beast's. Transform into a phoenix? A thestral? The possibilities tantalized.
Doubt gnawed at him. Was this feasible, or folly? The handwriting suggested an ancient hand—perhaps Rowena's own experiment. In the dimensional overlook, Ravenclaw noted Erwin's discovery with a mix of resignation and hope. The boy had unearthed the diadem swiftly; this booklet might hint at the Hufflepuff relic's location. "Let him glimpse it early," Ravenclaw thought. "Hufflepuff's innovation was sound in theory, untested in practice. But this one's no fool—he won't rush in blind."
Erwin snapped the booklet shut, a chill running down his spine. Tempting as it was, the risks loomed large. Who knew the inventor's credentials? One botched incantation could end him. The instructions felt fragmented, too, as if key warnings had faded with time.
He committed the pages to memory regardless—knowledge was power, after all. But experimentation? Not yet. One life demanded caution, not recklessness.
Tucking the booklet into his robes, Erwin rose, the study's magic humming faintly in response. The trial's final secrets beckoned.