Monday, October 11, 1993
I yawned as I stepped onto the Hogwarts grounds, the early morning air cool enough to bite through my robes. Mist clung low to the grass, curling around my boots with every step, and the castle loomed ahead of me, tall and familiar, its towers silhouetted against a pale, half-awake sky.
"Morning, Professor Lockhart!" Hagrid called.
I turned my head to see him standing among his pumpkins, which had reached a size that could only be described as excessive. Several of them were easily as tall as my chest, their thick vines twisting across the soil like something alive. Hagrid was humming to himself as he worked, sleeves rolled up, hands covered in dirt.
"Good morning, Hagrid," I replied, lifting a hand in greeting. "The pumpkins seem to be thriving."
Hagrid beamed. "Aye! Feed 'em right, talk to 'em nice, an' they'll grow big an' strong."
I glanced at one particularly massive specimen and decided not to ask what he'd been feeding them.
With a final nod, I continued toward the castle, my steps slower than usual. My muscles protested quietly with every movement, and my magic still felt… taut, like a bowstring drawn too tight and not yet released.
Yesterday had been exhausting.
Grindelwald had not been satisfied until I could cast Protego Diabolica as quickly, cleanly, and elegantly as he could. Every hesitation earned a sharp look. Every uneven flame earned a correction. Every moment of inefficiency earned another repetition.
"I will not have my signature magic used sloppily," he had snapped more than once. "If you are going to wield it, you will wield it properly."
By the end of the day, I could summon the ward in a single smooth motion, blue fire rising obediently at my will, balanced and precise. My magic responded instantly now, no hesitation, no flicker.
Grindelwald had finally nodded, satisfied.
"Acceptable," he'd said, which, coming from him, might as well have been high praise.
I pushed open the castle doors and stepped inside, the familiar warmth of Hogwarts wrapping around me. The corridors were already stirring with life. Students hurried past, some still half-asleep, others buzzing with energy, voices echoing softly against the stone walls.
Normally, I would have enjoyed the attention. But today, my mind was elsewhere.
Because as exhausting as yesterday had been, today promised to be no easier.
I was training with Dumbledore.
I sighed inwardly.
Grindelwald's lessons were brutal, direct, and unapologetically dangerous. You either kept up, or you learned very quickly why you should have. Dumbledore, on the other hand, was… unpredictable.
The old goat had a habit of teaching lessons that didn't feel like lessons at all. Conversations that turned into tests. Simple questions that hid razor-sharp insight. Casual strolls that somehow ended with reality itself bending just slightly out of shape.
And he never explained anything until you already understood it.
I adjusted my grip on my staff as I walked deeper into the castle.
So, I thought, what are you planning to teach me this time, Albus?
Whatever it was, I had the distinct feeling that by the end of the day, I would be just as tired as I had been yesterday.
Possibly more.
And somehow, that thought made me smile. Am I turning into a masochist?
…
"Good morning, Gilderoy," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "I trust you slept well?"
I stepped into our usual training room, the familiar circular chamber already warmed by soft golden light drifting in from enchanted sconces along the walls. The air smelled faintly of old stone and something herbal.
"I fell unconscious the moment my head touched the pillow," I replied honestly, rolling my shoulders. "My entire being hurts. But not as much as yesterday, so I suppose that means I slept well."
Dumbledore chuckled, the sound warm and genuinely amused. "Gellert can be… enthusiastic. And he demands nothing less than perfection. If you were able to reach your bed before losing consciousness, then you must have performed adequately."
He gave me a sideways glance over his half-moon spectacles. "Otherwise, I suspect you would still be there."
I stretched, vertebrae popping quietly as I worked the stiffness out of my back. "Charming. Alright," I said, exhaling. "What are you planning to teach me today? Go on. I'm ready for anything."
That, as it turned out, had been an invitation.
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully, blue eyes sharpening just a fraction. "Tell me," he said, "have you ever considered becoming an Animagus?"
I paused.
The question caught me off guard, enough that I actually took a moment to think it through instead of answering immediately.
"I'm… not sure," I admitted slowly. "From what I understand, the process is dangerous, and you don't get to choose the animal. What if I end up with something utterly unimpressive? A mouse. A rabbit. Or a ferret."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.
"Under normal circumstances," he said gently, "that would be a valid concern."
He began pacing slowly across the room, hands clasped behind his back.
"However, the African method of Animagus transformation provides additional benefits. Even if the animal form itself is not to your liking, the changes extend beyond the transformation."
He stopped and turned toward me. "The magic reshapes the body and mind permanently. Enhanced physical control. Improved sensory awareness. In some cases, increased strength or balance."
He smiled faintly. "I am a prime example."
I raised an eyebrow. "You are?"
"Oh yes," he said calmly. "My Animagus form is not particularly useful in the conventional sense. Unlike Minerva's, for instance."
I folded my arms. "Then why bother?"
"Because the benefits to my human form make it worthwhile," he replied. "Perfect balance. A subtle increase in strength. Exceptional footing, even on unstable terrain."
He tilted his head. "Can you guess what my animal form is?"
I studied him carefully. The posture. The calm. The beard.
I narrowed my eyes and rubbed my chin theatrically. "If I had to hazard a guess…"
I looked at the beard again.
"A goat."
Dumbledore burst out laughing.
"Is it the beard?" he asked, clearly entertained.
"Mostly," I said dryly.
"But you are correct," he continued. "A mountain goat, to be precise."
I blinked. "You're serious."
"Entirely," he replied cheerfully. "Had I used the traditional European method, the transformation would have been… impractical. A conspicuous animal is not always desirable."
He resumed pacing. "Fortunately, I learned an alternative approach from a dear friend who studied at Uagadou. Their method is longer, more demanding, and requires considerable discipline."
His eyes met mine again, sharp and assessing.
"But the benefits are substantial."
I hesitated, weighing the idea. Grindelwald's training had already proven that long, demanding, and dangerous lessons tended to come with remarkable rewards.
"So," Dumbledore asked mildly, "do you wish to learn?"
I exhaled and shook my head with a faint laugh. "You really don't ease people into these things, do you?"
Then I straightened.
"Alright," I said. "You've got me. What do I need to do?"
Dumbledore's smile widened, and for just a moment, I had the distinct feeling that I had just stepped onto a very long, very complicated path.
"First," he said calmly, "you will need patience."
…
Dumbledore flicked his wand and the room subtly changed. The light dimmed, the air settling into something deeper and quieter, like the moment just before sleep claims you.
He explained that the first stage had nothing to do with transformation at all.
"This," he said, tapping his temple lightly, "is about connection."
He provided me with a meditation method unlike anything I had practiced before. It was not passive, nor was it particularly comfortable. I was instructed to sit cross-legged at the center of the room, spine straight, hands resting loosely on my knees, while Dumbledore carefully inscribed a simple circular ward around me. Not a barrier, he clarified, but a focus. Something to keep my magic from wandering while my mind did.
"The African method begins inward," he explained. "You are not becoming an animal. You are remembering what part of you already is one."
That was… unsettling.
The meditation itself was guided by a long incantation in Swahili, its rhythm slow and deliberate, meant to be chanted softly rather than spoken aloud. The words felt heavy on the tongue, ancient and layered, as if meaning existed not only in their translation but in the sound itself. Dumbledore warned me that pronunciation mattered less than intent, but cadence was crucial. The magic lived in the repetition.
I was to chant it twice a day.
Once in the morning, before the noise of the world could intrude.
And once at night, just before sleep, when the mind was at its most honest.
As I followed his instructions, I felt it almost immediately. Not some dramatic revelation or sudden vision, but a subtle pressure, like something deep inside me stirring in response to being acknowledged. The incantation seemed to echo inward rather than outward, brushing against instincts I normally kept buried under charm, wit, and carefully constructed confidence.
"This will not be quick," Dumbledore said as I finished the first session, voice gentle but firm. "How long it takes depends entirely on your connection to your inner animal. For some, it is a matter of months. For others, years."
I glanced up at him. "And you?"
"Just under half a year," he replied mildly. "Though I was… stubborn about it."
I had no trouble believing that.
He also warned me that there would be days when the meditation felt pointless, when nothing stirred at all, and nights when it would leave me restless and unsettled, dreams crowded with unfamiliar sensations. That, he assured me, was normal. Progress was not measured by visions or excitement, but by consistency.
"Discipline," he said, meeting my eyes, "is what separates an Animagus from someone merely pretending to be one."
By the time we finished, my legs were numb, my throat dry, and my head felt strangely quiet, as if something had been gently rearranged inside it.
As I stood and stretched, I couldn't shake the feeling that this lesson was unlike the others.
Grindelwald had taught me how to command magic.
Dumbledore, it seemed, was teaching me how to listen.
…
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