When Will crawled out of the ashes again, he discovered that he seemed to have been buried alive—he was underground, surrounded by rubble and earth.
Somewhat speechless, Will fluttered his wings. The soil around him began to collapse inward, becoming a tiny block of black iron.
Light shone around him. Will grabbed the Book Trunk, which was half buried in the soil, and raised his head. The earth overhead parted on its own, and blocks of black iron slowly drifted down.
Transfiguration came especially easily this time. Will felt as though he were merely moving his own fingers.
Dim light spilled down, and Will floated up to the surface.
He found himself in an unfamiliar land, beneath a gray sky, with barren fields all around him. A plume of cooking smoke rose in the distance; there seemed to be a village there.
Will returned to human form, clad in his gray robe, his silver eyes brooding, as though nothing had happened. He raised his hand. His watch was still there, and the year displayed on it was 1767.
"1767. A hundred and fifty-nine years," Will said, looking up at the gloomy sky. "How interesting. Is it time or magic doing this to me?"
He seemed to be talking to himself, yet also asking a question.
Will actually suspected both. He also suspected his guess had been right: magic could most likely turn Muggles into wizards.
His recent experiences had even begun to make him question whether his magic-blessed body really worked.
If it did, was his current situation already the result of being protected by magic? What would he have faced without that protection?
Will did not know, nor did he want to. His notebook was gone, and his experiment had been forcibly ended. He was in a foul mood.