In the dead of night, inside Ted's so-called "private laboratory."
Anzu and Parker hovered nearby, keeping watch just in case a professor—or worse, Filch—decided to do a late-night patrol.
Actually, Ted had built a pretty decent rapport with Mrs. Norris lately.
These days, the feline even sneaked off from Filch to visit Ted for midnight snacks.
She especially loved the white mice Ted bred for experiments, which understandably made Anzu a bit grumpy.
More than once, Anzu had dive-bombed her in the corridors in retaliation when no one was looking~
Filch, naturally clueless, thought his beloved cat was ill and even brought her to Madam Pomfrey for medicine.
By the flickering light of the fireplace, a few white mice and a long-tailed monkey still sat caged, watching the room nervously.
Ted's last experiment had supposedly wrapped up, and the monkey—an unfortunate-looking creature with a scruffy face and overbite—was due to be returned.
Except... there was already a new round of testing.
Professor Kettleburn had been shouting for days: "My monkey is gone! Has anyone seen my monkey?!"
...
Lately, Ted had been studying how to replicate certain spells from the world of Azeroth—specifically, the conjuration of food and water.
From Ted's perspective, these spells were among the hardest to adapt into native wizarding magic.
If it weren't for his druidic knowledge from another world and a background in magical transformation, he wouldn't have dared try it.
Regular fire and water spells could be traced, suppressed, even reversed if needed. But food and water creation? That was different.
Take the "Awakening" technique, for instance—a magic surge that rapidly restored internal power. With some adjustments, it could be linked to a wizard's magical bloodline. Not impossible.
Water-making was easier.
The local wizarding world already had spell like Aguamenti, capable of conjuring fresh water.
The question was: could the water actually do anything—restore stamina or magic power, for example?
Food creation, though, was another beast entirely.
Could wizards conjure food from thin air?
Yes. And also, no.
According to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration, one of the major exceptions was food: it couldn't be conjured from nothing.
You could transform ingredients into something edible—like flour and water into bread—but conjuring it from scratch?
Not possible.
At least, not in a way that was safe or nutritious.
That's why Mrs. Weasley's kitchen magic worked so well. S
he had the raw stuff to start with. Most household witches did it that way.
So, why could water be conjured and not food?
Ted ran an experiment. The aguamenti from his spell was safe to drink.
Verified by both the white mice and the long-tailed monkey.
But the food?
Ted had created a doughnut using a conjured food spell.
One mouse ate it—and within five minutes, was in agony.
The poor thing died shortly after.
An autopsy showed severe stomach damage and zero food residue.
Clearly, something wasn't right.
Next, Ted used Conjure Water, the spell from Azeroth—designed to restore magical energy—and had the mice drink from it.
He gave three mice different doses.
Two of them thrashed about in pain, squealing as they ran around the cage.
The third?
It got overly excited.
It started dancing.
That was the only one that survived from the last batch of eight test subjects.
It had now been "promoted" to the third round of trials.
Five minutes later, the two others were dead.
Eyes bulging, bodies slightly swollen.
Ted dissected them.
Their muscles and blood vessels were badly damaged, though their brains remained intact.
"Looks like the result of severe magic contamination," Ted murmured, unsure.
He carefully recorded everything in his experiment journal—every step, reaction, and possible conclusion.
Anzu glanced at the tiny corpses and shook his feathered head in dismay. "What a tragic end... Such a waste! I won't even get a nibble. Caw~"
In the cage, the long-tailed monkey covered its mouth in horror.
It pressed itself into the corner as far from Ted as it could manage, wishing it could melt into the bars.
The creature wasn't dumb.
It had seen enough mice perish over the last few days—all because of the strange liquids this boy kept forcing on them.
Now it was next in line?!
Long-tailed Monkey (internally): Help! Someone's trying to kill the monkey! I swear I won't steal again, just let me live~~~
Ted straightened up. "Clean this place up and bury the white mouse somewhere discreet, away from the castle."
He cast an invisibility charm on himself and slipped out to return to bed.
Anzu took to the air without a word, wings flapping silently as he followed into the shadows of the corridor.
Parker flexed its tiny limbs and began directing the Unseen Servant summoned through Ted's magic.
Two shimmering, humanoid silhouettes floated toward the window, cradling the mouse's remains.
They glided through the air, heading toward the edge of the Forbidden Forest to dig a quiet little grave.
Unseen Servant were incredibly handy—no food, no sleep, no complaints, no wages.
The only downside? Not the brightest.
But with Parker issuing detailed commands, that flaw was covered.
...
The next day, Ted stood outside Professor McGonagall's office right after school.
"Knock knock knock~"
"Come in."
Ted pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Professor McGonagall glanced up—and raised her eyebrows in surprise.
Ted? Now that was unexpected.
She straightened in her chair, took off her glasses, and began polishing them with a neat cotton cloth.
Her expression was less than warm.
Ted had caused quite a stir this year, especially after that whole business with the Forbidden Forest.
If he hadn't been showing such promising growth in Transfiguration lately, she would've already dragged him back by the ear.
"Ted, what is it now?" she asked, still focused on her glasses, not bothering to look up.
Ted smiled cheerfully—the same bright, innocent grin he'd worn when she took him to Diagon Alley for the first time.
"Professor, I've got some questions about Transfiguration. Thought I'd come to the expert."
Maybe it was the charm of that grin, or perhaps her passion for Transfiguration itself, but McGonagall finally set her glasses back on her nose and gave him a proper look.
"Sit down," she said, and gave a casual wave.
A chair appeared behind Ted.
He sat down with a thick notebook in hand, posture perfect, trying his best to look like the model student.
"Alright, what's the question?" she asked, her tone slightly softened.
Ted's performance was working—at least a little.
"Professor, I'd like to know more about Gamp's Basic Laws of Transfiguration—especially the first of the five exceptions."
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit advanced for someone in your year."
Gamp's Laws weren't typically covered until at least fifth year.
But then again, this was Ted.
If she didn't tell him, he'd probably dig it up on his own.
And from the way he phrased that... he clearly already had.
"You're asking about the rule that says you can't conjure food, aren't you?"
"Exactly!" Ted leaned forward. "Can it really not be conjured? Or is it just... not edible?"
Professor McGonagall locked eyes with him. "Tell me you didn't actually try to eat something you conjured, Mr. Epifani."
Ted chuckled, trying to sound innocent. "Of course not! But... why is water from the Aguamenti charm drinkable, then?"
She sighed. "Because Aguamenti is a spell that summons water—it's not Transfiguration. There's a difference."
Given his obvious dedication, McGonagall decided to explain further.
She launched into a lecture on Gamp's Basic Laws, with a focus on the food exception.
Ted listened intently, scribbling notes like mad.
She explained that Transfiguration typically alters what already exists—it can't create complex matter out of nothing.
Most Transfigured objects aren't stable or permanent, which is exactly why conjured food can't be eaten.
Once the magic wears off, what's left inside you might not even be food anymore.
The magical backlash alone could be devastating—causing anything from digestive damage to magical poisoning.
That's why the law existed.
Food couldn't be created from thin air.
Well... mostly.
Just like how Newton's laws break down at quantum levels, Gamp's Laws had exceptions at the highest tiers of magical study.
With master-level skill and decades of research, it was theoretically possible to create edible food using Transfiguration.
But the effort was absurdly out of proportion with the results.
'Maybe if I could manipulate either the molecular structure or the atoms themselves, I could create something from nothing... But that's impossible, of course—unless I had the Six Eyes of Gojo Satoru. With them, I could theoretically control magical energy with such precision that I might be able to influence the subatomic particles that make up reality itself...' Ted's thoughts spiraled wildly around the theory, but he quickly dismissed it, given how complex and impractical it was.
Even McGonagall herself had never pursued such an impractical line of study.
"Why bother conjuring food," she said dryly, "when magical agriculture is so efficient?"
She pointed to Hagrid's Halloween pumpkins as an example—huge, enchanted, and grown with a few spells.
Wizards didn't worry about survival needs.
Food, shelter, clothing—those were trivial concerns for anyone with even basic magical skill.
Which, of course, explained why many wizards had... eccentric personalities.
With no pressure to survive, they often went off the rails in very creative ways.
She even mentioned a fellow researcher who once spent years trying to crossbreed magical beasts to maximize food yield.
The result? A giant, chubby pig with a trunk like an elephant that could feed the whole school for months.
...
Still, Ted came away from the conversation with renewed determination.
Even if true conjuration was out of reach for now, the fact that it could be done was enough for him.
There was more work to do. More experiments to design. More test subjects to... acquire.
He scribbled in his notebook.
"Note to self: Get more guinea pigs."