15th August, 1891 — countryside on the outskirts of London
He’d been waiting weeks for a lightning storm. He was more nervous now than he had been, somehow: he’d been committed to this for long enough, but being this close had brought the potential hazards of the scheme into sharper relief. There were ways enough it could go wrong.
Of course, Jude was certain the potion would work as it was supposed to – Kingsley had double- and triple-checked the process for him, to boot – and he’d taken his time, been thorough in his research and reapplied himself to his Transfiguration studies until he was more confident than he’d ever been, and had read up on everything he could about this... and he had to trust that, even if he hadn’t unearthed any other promising revelations about the more forcible kinds of transformation as he had hoped, his efforts would at least serve him well in this.
The evening sky had been a murky grey, drawing close over the rooftops, when Jude had left; he had come out to a darkened, deserted patch of woodland where the outer boroughs of London dwindled away, as he’d planned; he hadn’t warned Kieran that he was making the attempt tonight. In case he tried to talk him out of it. In case it went badly.
No doubt Kieran would be furious, if it did. And maybe it wouldn’t even work – maybe the werewolf would know there was still something human in it, and maul an animagus as surely as it would a man – maybe this had been foolish and pointless, all a waste of time, but Jude... well, at least he’d have tried.
So, as the lightning struck, he swallowed his fear with the potion and felt the scorching pain of it at once. Nothing compared to every full moon, he told himself as it wracked his body, rippling through his limbs, the strange second heartbeat seizing at his chest. But there – there was an image in his mind’s eye, of the transformation complete before he had done it – and suddenly he was himself but not him.* White feathers, and a wingspan that stretched out at least seven foot, and still a strange lightness to this form. He took off, lifted easily by the currents of the storm, and for a moment – maybe for longer than that – he could only marvel at the sensation, at being able to glide back home over the city beneath the moon.
*short-tailed albatross
Of course, Jude was certain the potion would work as it was supposed to – Kingsley had double- and triple-checked the process for him, to boot – and he’d taken his time, been thorough in his research and reapplied himself to his Transfiguration studies until he was more confident than he’d ever been, and had read up on everything he could about this... and he had to trust that, even if he hadn’t unearthed any other promising revelations about the more forcible kinds of transformation as he had hoped, his efforts would at least serve him well in this.
The evening sky had been a murky grey, drawing close over the rooftops, when Jude had left; he had come out to a darkened, deserted patch of woodland where the outer boroughs of London dwindled away, as he’d planned; he hadn’t warned Kieran that he was making the attempt tonight. In case he tried to talk him out of it. In case it went badly.
No doubt Kieran would be furious, if it did. And maybe it wouldn’t even work – maybe the werewolf would know there was still something human in it, and maul an animagus as surely as it would a man – maybe this had been foolish and pointless, all a waste of time, but Jude... well, at least he’d have tried.
So, as the lightning struck, he swallowed his fear with the potion and felt the scorching pain of it at once. Nothing compared to every full moon, he told himself as it wracked his body, rippling through his limbs, the strange second heartbeat seizing at his chest. But there – there was an image in his mind’s eye, of the transformation complete before he had done it – and suddenly he was himself but not him.* White feathers, and a wingspan that stretched out at least seven foot, and still a strange lightness to this form. He took off, lifted easily by the currents of the storm, and for a moment – maybe for longer than that – he could only marvel at the sensation, at being able to glide back home over the city beneath the moon.
