#//apprently the first animagus transformation needs to happen in a lightning storm sO

[sturdybackbone]

become

Rain was hitting the glass with such strength that, if Artur didn’t know better, he could almost think the glass was going to shatter. The skies were thick and gloomy outside, and lighting would occasionally flash outside.  Artur and Headmistress McGonagall had been planning this for a very, very long time, even before the weatherwitch went and predicted a lightning storm for the 20th. This had been in the works since, practically, his second year, when he’d read about the Animagus transformation in a book, and saw it as an opportunity to impress his favourite teacher. And now, years upon years of work and labour were finally going to come to a head. 

McGonagall was positively glowing with pride, now, laced with some dark tendrils of worry, as she held out the potion that Artur had brewed a month ago. The Animagus Potion, the last step. Everything was going to be fine. He’d done all of the steps, he had done all of the needed chanting, had held a mandrake leaf in his mouth for that bloody damn month—Everything was fine. Today was the day when it would all be worth it. And yet, Artur’s stomach is roiling with apprehension. “Worrying is for those who haven’t done their work.” McGonagall had told him, a few times, over the course of their relationship. Artur typically agreed with her, and yet, here he was, staring blankly at a potion, gnawing on his bottom lip. McGonagall smiled lightly, almost assuredly, and he returned her expression with a weak smile of his own, before stepping to her, and taking the potion.  “I do hope you’re not anything too large.” She says, in a way that most would describe as neutral. But, knowing the woman, that’s as close to humour as she could get with a student.  “Or too small.” Artur replies, staring into the depths of the deep, blood red potion, watching how the light flickers in it, even through tinted class. “I think I’d strangle myself if I turned out to be a frog Or, worse: A gerbil.” Teo would likely eat him, if that was the case.  McGonagall’s lips were still upturned, as she moved back, a few steps. Artur nodded, heaved a breath, eased himself onto his knees, and took out his wand, placing the tip over his heart. He pops the cork of the potion, and silver smoke came dancing out. He looks up at her, back at the potion, shifts on his feet, and speaks the words that he knows better than the back of his hand, by now. “Amato Animo Animato Animagus.”  And in the very next moment, he places the potion at his lips, tips it back, and drinks it all in one gulp. It’s a horrid, horrid texture, all scales and fur and tastes like licking a cat and like musk and like dirt, but that’s good. That’s what it’s supposed to taste like. It’s supposed to taste like unlimited potential, and that’s exactly what it is.  Artur carefully sets the empty vial aside, and McGonagall summons it, as well as Artur’s wand. Wouldn’t want it to be snapped mid-transformation, after all.  There are four seconds of reprieve, of nothing, but the horrible aftertaste of the potion in his mouth. It almost becomes five, and Artur almost starts worrying, because there are four words, four words for the Animagus chants, four words for the four realms of the world where creatures dwell, so what—Before he bends in two and slaps a hand onto his mouth, unable and unwilling to breathe. He does not vomit, despite feeling like he’s about to, and feels a magical mechanism slide in place, not allowing him to anyways, else the transformation would be ruined, and he’d end up some half-man half-beast. Artur swallows, nausea still impossibly heavy in him, and when he opens his mouth, to slowly exhale, red mist comes slithering through the gaps between his fingers into the air, like blood in water.  There’s a roiling pressure in his stomach, that’s building, and building, like a pot the heat, and all Artur can say, before it all explodes, is a meek little, “Oh fuck.”  An immense pressure, the likes of which even ten of Artur’s fathers couldn’t match, suddenly presses itself against his shoulders and neck and head and spine, and Artur is sent to his hands and knees, as he makes mildly pained inhales and exhales, as his belly spits fire and might at every single inch of his body.  He hears the distant sound of bones cracking, but none of the resulting pain. It’s likely they’re all jumping, like impatient children in too-talle seats, and then, and then, he can all but feel them warping, taking muscle and tendon and sinew with them. By now, the potion’s painkilling properties kicked in, and while Artur could feel nothing but strong nausea and dizziness, he was aware of every single thing happening to his body.  Of his organs spinning as they shrunk, of his muscles becoming smaller but tighter, stronger. Of his face warping and sharpening, of millions upon millions of little pins pushing against and breaking through the surface of his skin, and some senses dulling and others sharpening, and at some point it becomes such a blur of sensations that Artur simply can’t keep up any longer. And so he doesn’t. The transformation barely takes 90 seconds, but it felt quite a lot longer than that. Like a lifetime, almost.  And at the very end, Artur’s lying on his belly, blinking up at the world, eyes wet and teary, body itching in a way like a scab that’s on its way to healing does, and Artur realizes that he is really looking up at the world.  Oh god. He’s not actually a gerbil, is he?  Artur tries placing weight onto new foreign limbs, as his head whirls around to assess his body. In the process, he sees McGonagall take a step closer, but doesn’t pay her any heed, just yet. Because now he's positively ogling himself. What kind of creature is he—Artur sees dark and brown fur that’s the thickest he’s ever seen, sees small, stubby legs, and a body that never seems to end, and if he crosses his eyes he sees a long, cream snout, and then there are these massive claws, gnarled and curled in a most frightfully amazing way— “Polecat.” McGonagall breathes, before a grin, full and bright, climbs onto her face. Artur’s attention is instantly brought to her, and his very first instinct, in this alien body, is to raise his fur, arch his spine, and let out this most hideous rattling sound from deep, deep, deep in his belly.  McGonagall chuckles, shaking her head, “And an ornery one at that, too.” And Artur finally managed to gather his senses, in the next moment and quiets down. There’s a moment of quiet.  “A European Polecat.” McGonagall takes another step closer. The urge to hiss comes again, but this time Artur suppresses it. “How... Interesting, Mr. Kalinkalovsky.”  Her eyes are twinkling, and she looks as proud as she’s ever been. “The feral ancestor of modern day ferrets. Known to be rather independent, and rather proficient hunters. Those deceived by their unimpressive looks and similarity to their tamed cousins often end up learning the wrong way about their ferocity, stubbornness, and sheer determination to end up where they want to be.”  McGonagall nods. Are her eyes twinkling, or are they actually shining—

“Yes.” She sounds breathless, and so, so, so proud. “That fits you quite well, Mr. Kalinkalovsky.”   She crouches down by him, and extends a palm. Before anything else, Artur wants to hiss. He thinks that’s going to be a very familiar urge, if he plans to spend any time at all in this body. And then his second urge to smell the new, interesting thing, comes. And that’s what he does, slowly, carefully, skittering over to her.  After a moment of curious sniffing, her hand twists up, and lightly rubs at the space between his eyes and forward. “Yes.” She mumbles, scratching idly by his ear, while Artur merely blinks at her. Her expression is so, so, so soft, and so fond.  Then she blinks, she leans her shoulders back, and she straightens up, tall and imposing, once more.  She summons Artur’s wand, and puts it by Artur’s little feet. “Now, Mr. Kalinkalovsky. Let’s practice transforming instantly, now shall we?”  The rain still beats outside. Lightning flashes both outside, and inside. Artur, by the end of things, is tired and drained in a way that goes all the way down to his bones, and further, into his magic, leaving him half-hollow, but in a way that feels utterly satisfying.  The hour is now late, and McGongall, with her eyes twinkling, says, “Go to your dorm, Mr. Kalinkalovsky. Get some rest.”  (He’s grinning so brightly that he looks like a miniature sun. He doesn’t notice.) Artur nods, and makes way for the door, when he hears, “You did a fine job today, Ar— Mr. Kalinkalovsky.” And Artur nods, nods, still grinning, and as he veritably skips back to his dorm, Artur feels lighter than he has in years, years and years, floating, and floating, into happiness and into gleeful satisfaction.  The very moment his body touches a roughly horizontal surface, in his dorm, it falls and sinks, and Artur’s out like a light before he even had a chance to take off his shoes.