The second week of summer settled over Hogsmeade with a gentle, comforting warmth. The initial burst of unfettered relaxation had given way to a more structured calm. I'd started to venture out more, exploring the village's quieter lanes, sketching the ancient, gnarled trees that bordered the Forbidden Forest, and even indulging in a few spirited (and rather messy) games of Gobstones against myself in the garden. The Ministry-provided cottage felt truly like home now, a quiet sanctuary.
I hadn't yet plunged back into my deeper magical research, though the urge was growing. Instead, my days were filled with light reading, helping the automated systems in the cottage with minor enchantments, and waiting. Waiting for the one thing that still connected me to the academic world, the final, undeniable proof of my efforts: my Fourth Year results.
The morning the results were due felt no different from any other. The sun streamed through my window, birds chirped, and the distant murmur of Hogsmeade life drifted in. I was in the small kitchen, preparing a simple breakfast, when a familiar scratching at the windowpane startled me. A large, dignified Great Horned Owl, one of the Hogwarts delivery owls, perched patiently on the sill, a thick, cream-colored envelope clutched in its talons.
Anyone else's heart would have given a sudden, nervous lurch. After months of relentless study, the grueling exam period, and a week of trying not to think about it, the moment of truth had arrived, But for me I knew and was confident enough in myself that I ad no such feelings. I paid the owl a few Knuts from a small pouch on the mantelpiece, and it hooted softly before soaring away.
The envelope felt heavy in my hand, sealed with the unmistakable crest of Hogwarts. I took a deep breath, the scent of parchment and faint magic filling my nostrils. I knew I had worked hard, pushed myself to the brink, but there was always that flicker of doubt, that tiny worry that something, somewhere, hadn't quite clicked.
I carried the letter to the small sitting room and settled into an armchair, my hands trembling slightly as I broke the seal. Inside, two sheets of parchment lay folded. The first, a formal cover letter, bore the elegant script of Headmaster Armando Dippet.
> Dear Mr. Starborn,
> I trust this letter finds you well and enjoying the peace of the summer holidays. It is with great pleasure that I enclose your results for the Fourth Year examinations at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
> Your diligence and aptitude throughout the academic year have been noted by your professors. The enclosed scores reflect a commendable standard of magical education.
> We look forward to welcoming you back for your Fifth Year. Until then, I wish you a restful and productive summer.
> Yours sincerely,
> Armando Dippet
> Headmaster
>
My eyes scanned the letter quickly, then flickered to the second sheet. This was the one that mattered: my grades. Each subject was listed with a letter grade beside it.
My gaze moved down the list, each O a punch of satisfaction.
* Charms: O (Outstanding)
* Transfiguration: O (Outstanding)
* Potions: O (Outstanding)
* Defense Against the Dark Arts: O (Outstanding) - Even though I hadn't explicitly studied for this, my general magical aptitude and combat training must have covered it implicitly, or perhaps it was a more practical assessment this year that played to my strengths.
* Herbology: O (Outstanding)
* Ancient Runes: O (Outstanding)
* Arithmancy: O (Outstanding)
A wave of minor relief, mixed with a surge of pride, washed over Marcus Starborn. Outstanding in my electives too! All that extra effort, all the deep dives into complex numerical sequences and obscure runic translations, had paid off. A genuine, unrestrained smile spread across my face. Seven Os. Seven outstandings. It was better than I had dared to hope.
Then my eyes moved to the last two subjects on the list.
* History of Magic: EE (Exceeds Expectations)
* Astronomy: EE (Exceeds Expectations)
My smile softened into something more nuanced. EE. Exceeds Expectations. Not an O, but certainly not a P for Poor or a D for Dreadful. It was a good grade. A solid grade. And frankly, it was about what I expected. History of Magic, with its endless dates and names, had been a battle of rote memorization, a necessary evil rather than a passion. Astronomy, while beautiful under the stars, had often felt too theoretical, too focused on calculations and charts when my mind longed for the raw, untamed magic of the cosmos.
I reread the entire list, letting the full weight of the results sink in. Seven Outstandings, two Exceeds Expectations. It was an excellent report. More than excellent, it was a testament to my ability to buckle down and master the fundamentals, even the ones that didn't immediately spark my unconventional curiosity.
I leaned back in the armchair, holding the parchment loosely. My Deputy Headmaster, Herbert Beery, would have signed off on these, too. It felt good to have his tacit approval, and Dippet's formal commendation. This proved I could succeed within the established system, even as my mind increasingly yearned to push its boundaries.
The morning light felt brighter, the summer air sweeter. The results were a culmination, a definitive end to one chapter, and a clear signal for the next. Now, truly unburdened by academic anxieties, I could finally, wholeheartedly, return to my own, personal magical pursuits. The ancient grimoires and intricate wandless magic research that had patiently waited in my hidden compartment felt like they were calling to me with renewed urgency.
The parchment bearing my grades lay neatly folded on my bedside table, a silent testament to a battle won. Seven Os, two EEs. The numbers hummed with a quiet satisfaction that resonated deep within me. This morning, the day after receiving my Fourth Year results, the feeling was not one of lingering exhaustion, but of exhilaration, of boundless mental space finally freed from the constraints of curriculum. The air in my Hogsmeade cottage felt lighter, charged with possibility.
Breakfast was a simple affair – toast and tea – but each bite tasted of renewed purpose. My academic obligations were fulfilled, not just adequately, but exceptionally. Headmaster Dippet and Deputy Headmaster Beery's official commendations granted me a license, a kind of unspoken permission, to now delve into the true, untamed wilderness of magic that truly called to me. And there was one path, above all others, that had whispered to me from the dusty pages of forbidden texts, a challenge of unparalleled personal and magical mastery: Animagus transformation.
It wasn't a sudden whim. The concept had intrigued me for years, ever since I'd first stumbled upon a brief, tantalizing mention in a restricted section book during my second year. The idea of shifting one's very being, of becoming one with an animal spirit, was so profoundly fundamental, so deeply personal, that it eclipsed even my fascination with ancient runes or theoretical alchemy. It wasn't just about gaining a useful ability; it was about understanding magic on a cellular level, about the absolute unity of mind and body, about uncovering the hidden self that lay beneath the surface. It was the ultimate test of control, a testament to one's intrinsic magical power, and something Hogwarts would never, could never, teach in a classroom.
The secrecy of it was also appealing. The Ministry, with its pervasive regulations, regarded unregistered Animagi with suspicion, bordering on outright hostility. It was a skill reserved for a select few, and for good reason: the process was incredibly complex, dangerous, and required immense self-discipline. But that only intensified its allure for Marcus Starborn.
I made my way to my small, private study, a converted storage room behind the kitchen that the Ministry had fitted out for me. It was here that my true library lay, a collection far more eclectic and less conventionally 'safe' than anything found in Hogwarts. My hidden compartment, built into the back of a seemingly mundane bookshelf, creaked open with a soft sigh as I tapped it with my wand. Inside, neatly stacked, were the journals, the copied fragments from obscure grimoires, and the rare, forbidden texts that fueled my true intellectual hunger.
I pulled out a slender, leather-bound volume titled "On the Animagus: A Treatise on Corporeal Transfiguration and Inner Beast" – a dangerously rare book I had acquired from a hushed, illicit contact in Knockturn Alley years ago. Its pages were brittle, its ink faded, but the information within was gold. Beside it, I placed my own meticulous journal, already open to a fresh page, awaiting the careful, calculated notes of this new endeavor.
My preliminary research had already laid the groundwork, revealing the infamous, almost mythical, requirements. The first step was the most peculiar, the most patient-testing: a single Mandrake leaf. It had to be placed in the mouth for a full month, from full moon to full moon, never removed, never swallowed. The thought alone was daunting. The bitter taste, the constant awareness of it beneath my tongue, the risk of accidental ingestion… it demanded a level of self-control I knew I possessed, but had rarely tested in such a direct, continuous manner.
I closed my eyes, visualizing the process, feeling the metallic-earthy tang of the leaf already on my tongue. I knew my parents, running their apothecary, maintained a small, carefully cultivated patch of Mandrakes. It was fortunate, as sourcing one discretely would have been a significant challenge. However, taking one without their knowledge was also out of the question. They were deeply protective, and this was an endeavor I needed to keep entirely to myself for now.
That afternoon, I carefully slipped into the back garden, where my mum kept a small greenhouse dedicated to their more volatile potion ingredients. The air was thick with the scent of various herbs, and a faint, mournful wail hinted at the adult Mandrakes tucked away in their pots. My eyes scanned the smaller, recently potted seedlings. I found one, young but healthy, its leaves still small and tender. With a carefully placed Severing Charm, I detached a single, perfect leaf. It was a minor transgression, but a necessary one.
Back in the privacy of my study, I held the leaf in my palm. It was cool, slightly damp, and surprisingly resilient. Taking a deep breath, I slipped it onto my tongue, tucking it carefully into the corner of my mouth. The taste was immediately sharp, intensely earthy, and vaguely metallic – like wet soil and old copper. It was unpleasant, but bearable. My tongue instinctively wanted to shift it, to swallow, to do something with it. I fought the urge, focusing on the instructions: never removed, never swallowed.
The hours that followed were a testament to mental discipline. Eating was a slow, deliberate affair, every mouthful a precarious dance around the leaf. Talking was a conscious effort, my words slightly slurred, but thankfully, living alone meant I rarely conversed beyond polite replies to the automated voice of the cottage. Drinking water felt like a minor triumph each time I managed to keep the leaf firmly in place.
The second part of the initial phase was also demanding: the dew. For a full month, starting the day the leaf was placed, I had to collect a spoonful of fresh dew every morning, from a place untouched by sunlight or human foot for seven days. This required early rising, a careful trek to secluded parts of the Hogsmeade common, and a touch of caution to ensure I wasn't observed. The small, silver phial I designated for this purpose sat on my desk, waiting for its first collection.
Then came the thunderstorm. The treatise detailed that once the leaf was ingested (after the month), the collected dew had to be placed in a dark, quiet place, and awaited the first lightning strike of a major thunderstorm. Only then, with a specific incantation and the dew consumed, would the true transformation process begin. And only then would the unique characteristics of my animal form begin to manifest.
I mapped out the lunar cycle on a hidden calendar, counting the days until the next full moon. It would be a month of constant, quiet vigilance. A month of living with a Mandrake leaf in my mouth, of early morning dew collection, of obsessive observation of the weather.
The silence of the cottage, once a comfort, now became a canvas for my focused energy. My other magical pursuits, even the ones I had just been longing to return to, had to be, once again, relegated to the sidelines. The ancient grimoire on soul magic, the diagrams for the new warding spell, the deeper explorations into wandless magic – they would have to wait. This wasn't a choice driven by external pressure, like exams. This was a choice born of intense personal interest, a singular, all-consuming fascination. The Animagus transformation demanded absolute dedication, a purity of intent that allowed no room for distraction.
As the days of that second week of summer vacation passed, I began to feel the subtle, almost imperceptible shifts within. It wasn't physical, not yet. But there was a heightened awareness of my senses, a slight sharpening of my hearing, a faint whisper of connection to something deeper within myself. I found myself instinctively observing the local squirrels with an almost analytical gaze, or listening to the chirping of birds with an unusual intensity, as if searching for something. It was as if my magical core was beginning to attune itself, sending out tentative feelers towards the animal spirit that awaited me.
Lying in bed that night, the bitter taste of the Mandrake leaf a constant reminder in my mouth, I felt a deep sense of purpose. This wasn't just another arcane study; it was a journey into the very essence of my being, a quest to unlock a fundamental aspect of my magic. The path ahead was long, fraught with secrecy and potential peril, but the call of the wild within, the promise of true transformation, was a potent, irresistible lure.