After the start of March, the weather grew noticeably warmer.
Harold's research into spherical wands was going smoothly. So far, he had successfully created a prototype capable of casting spells.
The only problem—it could only be used once before cracking from the inside.
Harold suspected the issue lay in the arrangement of the runes. Lately, he'd been trying a new approach: slicing the spherical wand into equal-sized hemispheres like an orange, engraving the runes separately on each piece, linking them with the core, and then fusing everything back together.
The theory was sound, but the actual execution was proving difficult. Harold had attempted it several times, and every time, he failed at the final step.
Still, he wasn't discouraged. He just kept trying again and again. The plus side? Whenever he was fully focused, he completely forgot about the mandrake leaf in his mouth.
Of course, mealtimes were still a struggle.
"Harold, are you sure you're okay doing this?" Harry asked again—he'd already asked more than once.
For over half a month now, Harold had barely eaten solid food, relying almost entirely on milk and pumpkin juice.
Harry himself had two sandwiches, three fried eggs, and a sausage just to stay full until lunch—so the idea of surviving on just a glass of milk was incomprehensible.
Even the witches constantly talking about dieting hadn't pushed themselves this hard. Over just a few weeks, Harold had visibly slimmed down—much to the envy of some upper-year girls.
But when they tried mimicking his eating habits, none of them lasted even a week.
Hermione had secretly given it a try too. On the third morning, she'd broken down and devoured five roast beef sandwiches in one sitting—she nearly collapsed from the overeating. That was just yesterday.
Now, whenever she looked at Harold, her eyes carried a faint hint of admiration.
"You guys can't handle eating like this," Harold said, glancing at her. "To be honest, I can barely handle it myself."
"Then how have you managed to keep going?" Hermione asked. "It's been what—twenty days?"
"Twenty-three," Harold replied. "And the only reason I've made it this far is thanks to this."
He pulled a bottle out of his pocket, half-filled with a vivid orange-red potion.
"What's that?"
"A specially made revitalizing tonic," Harold said. "Just one sip restores your energy. Without it, I probably would've passed out in class days ago."
"Where did you get something like that?" Harry asked eagerly, his eyes lighting up.
He desperately needed something like it—Quidditch training was ramping up for their final match of the season, and Oliver Wood certainly wasn't going to ease off just because they were playing Ravenclaw.
After every practice, Harry felt completely spent, like he could barely lift his legs. A potion like that would make a world of difference.
"Where'd you buy it? How much was it?"
"Snape gave it to me," Harold answered.
That shut Harry up instantly. He couldn't imagine drinking anything that came from Snape.
Ron stared in disbelief. "Wait—Snape brewed it just for you? That's impossible…"
"Be more confident," Harold said. "Of course that didn't happen. The potion is his, but it was Professor McGonagall who gave it to me."
"Now McGonagall's involved too?" Harry looked even more confused.
Harold figured it was probably because she was afraid he'd collapse in class one day. He still found it a little amusing.
McGonagall had given him the potion a week ago—by then he'd been on milk and pumpkin juice for two weeks and was visibly weakened, struggling even to walk steadily.
But Harold didn't explain that to Harry or the others.
It wasn't about trust. It was about safety. He still didn't want anyone to know he was trying to become an Animagus. He had no desire to get visited by the Aurors.
Though Harold said nothing, Hermione was clearly suspicious. She kept glancing at his mouth.
Right then, Harold finished his milk, set down the cup, and stood up.
Even with the energy potion, resisting the smell of fresh toast and butter was torture.
"Just one more week…" Harold told himself.
But that final week dragged endlessly. In Herbology, Professor Sprout was lecturing about bouncing mushroom caps, which, to Harold, looked like nothing more than a tub of sizzling buttered eggs and fried sausages.
Once, in Potions, he even mistook the potion in his cauldron for a rich beef stew.
It took a stomach-turning stench wafting over from Neville's cauldron to snap him back to reality.
Harold couldn't even describe the smell—it was simply terrifying. Like Neville had mixed the Killing Curse into a cauldron and brewed it into a purplish-blue goo.
Frankly, Harold was amazed the dwarf that had drunk Neville's potion earlier hadn't died on the spot.
Even Snape seemed stunned. He flicked his wand to vanish the contents of Neville's cauldron—and in the process, the cauldron itself disappeared.
Harold couldn't tell whether Snape had done it on purpose or whether the cauldron had simply been deemed unusable by the cleaning charm.
Judging by Snape's expression—and the way the muscles in his face twitched slightly—it was probably the latter.
Cauldrons weren't cheap. And while Snape was harsh, he wouldn't normally destroy student property without cause.
Neville's ears flushed scarlet, and he dropped his wand right onto the burning coals below, which set off a spray of sparks.
"P-Professor," Neville stammered, fumbling with his wand, "I think I might've forgotten…"
"A brain," Snape said with venom. He extinguished the fire around Neville's station. "Five points from Gryffindor. Congratulations, you've officially lowered the bar for potion-making."
A few Slytherins immediately burst out laughing.
And that wasn't the end of it. Snape turned toward Harold.
"And you, Ollivander. Did you find it amusing to watch your classmate fail? Why didn't you stop him?"
"I…"
"Another five points from Gryffindor," Snape snapped, clearly uninterested in any explanation, and drifted away like a bat in billowing black robes.
"Sorry, Harold," Neville mumbled as they left the classroom. "I didn't think—"
Harold just patted him on the shoulder. "It's fine. At least you made history today."
"Huh?"
"Didn't you hear what Snape said? You've successfully lowered the standard for potion-making. That's not easy, you know."
Neville blinked and gave it some thought. He supposed Harold had a point. But that didn't make him feel any better.
The two had barely left the dungeon when they were stopped by someone else.
"G-Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall," Neville stammered again.
Snape was terrifying, no doubt about that. But next in line, especially for Neville, was McGonagall.
He always felt like he was letting Gryffindor down—and he dreaded her disapproval.
"You too, Longbottom," she replied, then motioned Harold over to a quiet corridor.
Her voice held a rare hint of anticipation. "Today's the full moon. So? Did it work this time?"
"Wait—it's today?" Harold hadn't realized. The moment it sank in, his heart leapt with excitement.
When McGonagall confirmed it, he immediately opened his mouth and carefully removed a leaf—still fresh and glowing faintly with mandrake magic after a full month.
"Excellent… Excellent." McGonagall looked truly impressed. Even though it was only the first step, Harold had already surpassed most wizards—including, well… a certain headmaster.
She was clearly surprised, but didn't show it for long. She took out a small vial containing a shallow layer of clear water.
Rainwater, untouched by sunlight or human contact for seven days—collected that very morning from the Forbidden Forest.
She handed the bottle to Harold and instructed him to drop in the leaf, a moth chrysalis, and a strand of his hair.
Then she took it back and told him she'd hide it in a quiet, dark place until a thunderstorm triggered the potion's transformation.
Harold, still buzzing with joy, didn't notice when she vanished—or that she hadn't told him where she would hide it.
Which meant… only McGonagall could retrieve it. Unless she agreed to hand it over, Harold wouldn't be able to continue with the Animagus transformation.
He only realized this the next morning.
A delicious plate of pork chops and sweet pudding dulled his excitement just enough to bring clarity back to his mind.
Wait a minute—McGonagall never told me where she hid the potion!
He rushed to her office.
"I'll give it to you when the time is right," she said calmly. "But not yet, Harold. Come back when you can feel your second heartbeat."
And then she closed the door in his face.
Harold stood there in shock, staring at the wooden door as his world spun around him.
He never imagined that the stern, upright Professor McGonagall would pull a Snape move and start playing mind games with a twelve-year-old.
Professors shouldn't go full Snape!
…
(End of Chapter)