Becoming an Animagus is one of the most advanced and dangerous magical processes in the Wizarding World, requiring exceptional skill in Transfiguration and months of uninterrupted dedication. A witch or wizard must first be highly trained and disciplined in magical transformation before even beginning the attempt, as any mistake can lead to permanent disfigurement or death.
For a standard Animagus the first stage requires holding a Mandrake leaf in the mouth for an entire lunar cycle—from full moon to full moon—without removing it at any time. Speaking with the mouth open risks dropping the leaf, and swallowing or losing it forces the individual to start over from the beginning. Throughout this month, weather and lunar conditions must be observed carefully because they play a critical role in the final transformation.
At the end of the cycle, the leaf is removed and placed into a small crystal phial alongside a strand of the witch or wizard's own hair, a silver teaspoon of dew collected from a place untouched by human feet or sunlight, and the blood-red chrysalis of a Death's-head hawkmoth. This phial is then sealed and placed somewhere where it can receive full, uninterrupted moonlight.
The wizard must then wait for a violent storm. At the exact moment lightning strikes nearby, the caster must chant the incantation "Amato Animo Animato Animagus", sincerely meaning "For thought, for spirit, for breath, I become Animagus."
When the potion inside the phial turns pearly white and smooth, it must be consumed immediately. The transformation begins at once, shifting first inside the mind. The witch or wizard will see and feel the presence of their animal form—an identity determined by personality traits and impossible to choose intentionally. Accepting the animal instinct is essential; resisting it leads to catastrophic failure.
The Mandrake was the anchor that held the wizard's human form while the transformation took root. A standard Greenhouse Mandrake was sufficient for a dog. But for a Dragon? A standard Mandrake would snap like a dry twig. He needed something stronger. Something that didn't just scream when pulled from the earth but roared.
Alister looked out of the window; the sun was dipping, but the winter twilight offered enough cover. He had time.
He rushed to the third-floor corridor, tapping the hump of the One-Eyed Witch statue. "Dissendium."
He moved through the damp, narrow tunnel with the speed of someone who had memorized every twist, emerging into the cellar of Honeydukes. He slipped out under an Invisibility Charm, bypassing the sweet shop entirely, and headed for the darker, seedier edge of Hogsmeade.
He stopped before a crooked, nameless shop with blackened windows. This was the place where he had found Secrets of the Darkest Art.
Alister pulled his hood low. He muttered a transfiguration spell, not on his face, but on his vocal cords, deepening his voice into a gravelly rasp. He adjusted his posture, hunching slightly to obscure his height.
He pushed the door open. The bell jangled with a mournful, rusted sound.
The interior smelled of sulfur and old dust. Behind the counter sat the proprietor—a man with skin like parchment and eyes like beads of oil. He was wiping a cursed opal necklace with a dirty rag.
The shop owner looked up, his eyes narrowing as he took in the cloaked figure. He didn't smile.
"You again," the owner rasped. He didn't ask for a name; in this line of work, names were liabilities. "You have excellent taste. The book I sold you... I assume it was satisfactory?"
"Educational," Alister replied, his altered voice filling the small space. He walked to the counter, placing a heavy bag of galleons on the wood. The clink of gold drew the owner's gaze instantly.
"I'm not here for books today," Alister said, leaning in. "I need roots. Specifically, Mandrakes."
The owner scoffed, losing interest. "Go to the Apothecary. I don't sell gardening supplies."
"I'm not looking for common seedlings to cure a petrification," Alister said, his voice low and vibrating with a dangerous calm. "I am looking for the Night-root Mandrake that glows blue in the dark for spirit communication. I am looking for the Frozen Mandrake dug from arctic permafrost."
He took a slow step forward, reciting the list.
"I also need the Silverleaf used for dream stabilization the War Mandrake your kind sold during the last wizarding war—the ones with aggressive, tentacle-like roots used for battle elixirs."
The shopkeeper stopped wiping the necklace. The boredom in his eyes was replaced by a sharp, calculating glint. He set the rag down.
"You know your botany," the man muttered, leaning over the counter. "But those are rare. Expensive."
Alister cut him off cold. "I want the Roots of an Elder Mandrake too."
The shopkeeper flinched. "An Elder? That... that is dangerous. The scream of a mature Elder Mandrake doesn't just knock you out; it liquefies glass. It shatters bone."
"And along with it," Alister continued, ignoring the warning, "I require high-purity catalysts. Dragon heart-blood—not the diluted powder, the liquid. And Phoenix ash—fresh, not the gray dust swept from a cage."
The shopkeeper stared at him for a long moment, then let out a rasping laugh. "You're mad. Or you're an Auror trying to entrap me. An Elder root? Phoenix ash? Even if I had them, the price would be—"
"The price isn't the issue."
Alister placed his hand flat on the counter. He simply unclamped the valves on his core.
A shockwave of raw, condensed mana flooded the small shop. It wasn't a spell; it was pure pressure. The air in the room grew instantly heavy, causing the glass display cases to rattle violently. The candle flames turned a sickly blue and bowed low, as if terrified.
The shopkeeper stumbled back, gasping as the air seemed to undergo a physical weight, pressing against his chest. He looked at Alister with wide, fearful eyes.
"If you try to defraud me with fake ash or a common root painted black," Alister whispered, the sound cutting through the rattling room, "I will dismantle this shop, plank by rotten plank, with you inside it."
He withdrew the pressure instantly. The room went still. The shopkeeper was breathing hard, clutching his chest.
Alister nudged the heavy bag of gold forward until it hit the man's hand.
"This is just the advance," Alister said smoothly, as if the threat had never happened. "Get me what I asked for."
The shopkeeper swallowed hard, nodding rapidly. "I... I have a contact in the Urals. And a supplier in Egypt. Give me a week. Just... just one week."
"You have three days," Alister corrected. He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around him. "I'll be watching."
________________________________________________________
The next three days were a masterclass in time management.
He sat next to Cho in lectures, helping her perfect the wand movements until she was giggling uncontrollably. At mealtimes, he sat near the Weasley twins, listening with half an ear to their hushed, frantic whisperings about "Filibuster Fireworks" and "Skiving Snackboxes".
But his nights were spent in the dungeons.
"Scrub harder, Potter," Snape's silky, dangerous voice cut through the gloom. "If I see a single spot of Horned Slug slime remaining on that cauldron, you will be here until Easter."
Alister didn't complain. He rolled up his sleeves and scrubbed. "Just ensuring the vessel is pristine, Professor. Contaminants ruin the yield."
Snape paused, looking up from the essays he was grading with a red quill that looked suspiciously like it was dipped in blood. He stared at Alister with a look of profound irritation.
"Tell me," Snape said softly, his voice dropping to a whisper that echoed off the stone walls. "What possessed you to send me... that... for Christmas?"
On the desk sat the offending item: a bottle of 'Sleekeazy's Hair Potion - Deluxe Edition,' wrapped in silver ribbon.
"It's a rare vintage, Professor," Alister replied without looking up, hiding his smirk as he rinsed the cauldron. "High-grade sheen. I noticed the fumes in this dungeon tend to... weigh things down. purely a gesture of concern for a colleague in the Potion arts."
Snape's lip curled. He looked like he wanted to deduct fifty points, but he also hadn't thrown the bottle away.
"Your 'concern' borders on suicidal, Potter," Snape sneered, though the malice was dialing down from 'lethal' to merely 'corrosive.' "However... your essay on the interaction between Asphodel and Wormwood showed a surprising degree of competence. Do not let your ego destroy your potential."
"I wouldn't dream of it, sir."
"Get out," Snape dismissed him, waving a hand. "And take that ridiculous optimism with you."
Alister dried his hands, bowed slightly, and exited the dungeon. As soon as the heavy door slammed shut, his expression shifted from the polite student to a calm face.
The extended detention was serving its purpose. Snape has identified his talent and was teaching him although snape tries to make it not obvious.
____________________________________________
Soon Alister got his hands on all the materials he required, although it did cost a fortune.
Next, the research phase was grueling, but necessary. For four days, Alister barely slept. He isolated himself in his base during night, which had provided him with a quite environment, dissecting minute scrapings of the Mandrake variants under a magical microscope.
The results were conclusive.
The Night Root Mandrake was too unstable. The War Mandrake was powerful but parasitic; it would drain his vitality faster than he could replenish it.
But the Elder Mandrake... it was perfect.
"It's dense," Alister noted, writing in his journal with a self-inking quill. "The cellular structure is more akin to petrified wood than plant matter. It can withstand the immense mana pressure of a Legendary transformation without crumbling."
He leaned back, looking at the dark, leathery leaves of the Elder plant sitting in the stasis jar.
"The trade-off is metabolic inertia. It's old. It's slow."
"Two months," Alister whispered, rubbing his temples. "Double the standard duration. Sixty days of not swallowing, not spitting, and trying to talk around a piece of ancient magical flora."
It was a logistical nightmare. But it was the only way to ensure he didn't explode into a cloud of gore when he attempted the shift.
He stood up and opened the jar. The air smelled of ozone and wet iron. He used silver tweezers to carefully snip a single, dark leaf from the crown of the Elder Mandrake. It didn't feel like a leaf; it felt heavy, like a strip of cold lead.
"Here goes nothing."
Alister placed the leaf under his tongue.
Instantly, a numbing cold spread through his jaw, followed by a low, rhythmic throbbing that synced with his heartbeat. It tasted bitter, like chewing on an old coin and graveyard soil.
He closed his mouth, testing the feel of it. It sat heavily against the floor of his mouth. He tried to speak.
"Th... testing," he mumbled. His tongue hit the leaf. He sounded slightly intoxicated, or like he had a swollen gum.
He grimaced. 'I need to fix that speech impediment fast, or Snape is going to think I've been drinking Felix Felicis for breakfast.'
Or maybe, he flipped through Herpo's book and found a simple spell which uses magic to create vibration for producing sound, User won't need to use his throat to create those vibrations.
Now that Mandrake's problem was out of the way he needs to research various combinations and theories to create a formula for his advanced Animagus Phial Potion.
(END OF CHAPTER)
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