Aside from the usual chatter about the match, plenty of bets were being placed. Some were normal—who would win, which Seeker would catch the Snitch. Others were bolder, stranger.
How many minutes would Harry last?
How many minutes would the Slytherins last?
After all, Harry hadn't just defeated Voldemort as a baby—rumor now claimed he'd fought a troll. Since the true story was known only to staff and the few students involved, the rest of the school was free to make up whatever they wanted.
A Ravenclaw student named Edgar was running the bets. At that moment, he was surrounded by students handing him coins.
Noah approached when Edgar finally had a free moment.
"What's the odd on the winner?"
Edgar answered instantly. He clearly knew his trade—every wager, every number.
"1.96 for Gryffindor, 1.74 for Slytherin."
Maybe students were favoring Slytherin, or maybe it was just Slytherins betting heavier, driving the odds down.
"And for Gryffindor to win with Harry catching the Snitch?" Noah asked.
Edgar grinned.
"6.22."
Noah didn't ask further. Instead, he made a flicking motion, and a pouch materialized in his hand. Edgar caught it and peeked inside, eyes widening. His practiced eye told him there were at least a hundred coins inside.
Counting proved him right. One hundred galleons, exactly.
"All on Gryffindor to win with Harry catching the Snitch," Noah said, taking his betting slip before leaving.
"What was that about?" Terry asked when Noah rejoined him and Michael at the Ravenclaw table.
"Nothing," Noah smiled. "Just seeing what fate has in store."
"Fate?" Michael muttered, not understanding, but he let it go.
. . .
At the Gryffindor table, the topic was the same.
"What do you think?" Harry asked Ron. "Who's the favorite?"
Ron had watched nearly every Gryffindor practice, at least when he wasn't buried under homework. Not that homework ever stopped him much.
He thought for a moment before answering.
"I think they're the favorites."
Harry blinked at him.
"They've been together longer. Hardly changed their lineup since last year, from what Fred and George said. Solid team." Ron paused. "But mostly—they're dirty. They play rough, lots of fouls. That's not good for us. Our team's faster, more creative, more about talent. It's gonna be a tough match."
Harry sighed. It echoed what the team had been saying all week. Still, Oliver was confident. Mostly in Harry catching the Snitch.
"I have to catch it," Harry muttered, closing his eyes, trying to hold onto that thought. His mind had been chaos lately, and practice hadn't gone smoothly since the troll incident. But the team trusted him. He had to deliver.
. . .
Later that day, Noah wandered the corridors, lost in thought. His mind was on the Forbidden Forest. He'd replayed that night over and over, piecing things together.
Spiderwebs.
That was how he'd been found.
If he was right, the entire forest was one giant trap—monitored almost everywhere, especially near the nest.
Two ways around it.
First, entering from elsewhere. But if what he sought was near the nest, that would be useless. A slim chance.
Second, finding a way to detect the webs.
Noah believed his right eye, at its second stage, could handle that. Keeping it active too long would be unpleasant—but possible.
The real problem is searching the entire forest… Unless I find a way to narrow it down…
Noah wasn't usually pessimistic, but he had to admit: mapping the forest might take months. Maybe a year.
"I'd love to know what you're plotting with that sly look on your face," a feminine, mildly curious voice interrupted.
Noah smiled.
"Careful what you wish for, Professor."
McGonagall frowned.
"And why's that?"
Leaning against the wall beside her, Noah gave her a mischievous grin.
"Don't you know what boys my age think about all the time?"
Minerva fell silent. Either she didn't know how to answer, or chose not to.
He winked.
"Ways to break the rules."
He swore he saw the faintest flicker of embarrassment on her face—gone in an instant, like a trick of the light.
He glanced toward a portrait of a plump wizard nearby.
"You saw that too, didn't you?"
The wizard nodded—but before he could speak, a curtain dropped over the frame, cutting him off.
McGonagall stood there, wand in hand, face stern.
"You know, Mr. Gray," she said, "I feel like every time we speak, I meet a different person."
Noah chuckled.
"I'm like that with everyone. The only difference is which version of me they get. You, for example, have only met the kind, playful versions."
"Really?" Minerva smirked faintly. "I thought you were just an arrogant genius and a foolish brat. You're sure you didn't bump your head as a child?"
Noah's grin widened.
"You should smile more, Professor."
He turned, about to leave.
"Do you have time for tea?" she asked suddenly.
Noah stopped and looked back.
Interesting…
. . .
Five minutes later, he was in McGonagall's office.
The smell of parchment and fresh ink filled the air. A quill was scribbling corrections across a pile of essays.
"Sit, please," she gestured to the chair before her desk. With a flick of her wand, a teacup and pot floated over, pouring for him.
"Thank you." Noah took a sip, crossing his legs. "So, what would you like to discuss? Certainly not tea—it's excellent, true English tea."
"Not about the tea," McGonagall allowed herself a small smile.
She's in good spirits. Must be the Quidditch match tomorrow, Noah thought, sipping again.
But McGonagall didn't waste time.
"What I want to ask is about the magic you used against the troll," she said, watching his expression.
When he didn't protest, she continued.
"It was a beautiful display of Transfiguration. In fact, one of the best I've seen in my years of teaching. Especially from a first-year." She sipped her tea. "I've said it before, but your mastery of Transfiguration fascinates me."
"That wasn't a question," Noah replied lightly.
"Not yet." She tapped her wand at a chair in the corner.
The chair floated up, split into three parts, the wood twisting into three spears. She looked at him, then flicked her wand again. From nothing, a fourth spear appeared.
"Do you know the difference between how I 'created' those four?" she asked.
Noah took another sip, then grimaced.
"It's cold now," he muttered.
"Allow me," McGonagall offered, about to warm it with her wand.
Noah waved her off.
"No need. It's hot again."
She blinked. Then noticed steam rising once more from his cup.
When? Her eyes darted back to Noah. He was smiling at her.
She couldn't help a half-smile of her own. She liked this—his sarcasm, confidence, mystery. It clashed with the image of an eleven-year-old student, but it intrigued her all the same.
"Transformation. Changing an object's form. And the second, Conjuration—creating something from nothing," Noah answered calmly.
"Excuse me?" she arched an eyebrow.
"The answer to your question. The difference in how the spears were created. Two branches of Transfiguration: Transformation and Conjuration."
"Exactly. And if you know that, you know how difficult Conjuration is," McGonagall said.
"You don't really want to know about the spears I made against the troll," Noah cut in. "What you want to know is how I bound the first troll. The one in the corridor."
"Not exactly." Her reply made him frown. "I know you used Conjuration. That's what confuses me."
Noah chuckled, finishing his tea in one gulp.
"You're the one confusing me, Professor. Just get to the point."
McGonagall nodded.
"When I dispelled the Transfiguration, the bindings didn't return to air."
Her words hung in the silent room. Even the quill stopped scratching.
Noah smiled. Inside, he considered whether he'd been careless. But in the end, he shook his head. He never minded showing off—aside from a few abilities, most things didn't need hiding. And he'd even hinted at this before.
"The bindings didn't return to air because they never were air."
The silence deepened.
McGonagall's mind raced. She replayed every moment she'd seen him use Transfiguration.
The gloves at the charity ball.
The classroom demonstrations.
The trolls on Halloween.
She'd always assumed it was Conjuration. But when she'd undone the ropes around the first troll, she'd felt something strange. Resistance.
And now—
They hadn't turned back to air because they were never air.
How in Merlin's name was this boy using magic?
Is this why Dumbledore told us to keep an eye on him?
She looked at Noah. He was already standing, smiling at her.
"If they weren't air," she asked softly, "then what were they?"
Noah stepped toward the door.
"Thank you for the tea. And good luck in the match tomorrow."
He left, leaving her alone with her thoughts.