The decision to become a Dragon was only the first step of a much more complex journey. Sebastian sat in his private laboratory, maps of draconic distribution and biological charts spread across the floor. He needed a specific breed. In the magical world, "Dragon" was a broad term, like saying "Cat." A kitten and a lion were both felines, but one of them was significantly better at winning an argument.
He initially considered the Ukrainian Ironbelly. It was the heavyweight champion of the dragon world—a massive, silvery-grey beast with a wingspan that could shadow a small village. Its scales were like thick iron plates, capable of withstanding direct impact from ship-mounted ballistae. If Sebastian wanted to be an unstoppable physical force, the Ironbelly was the clear choice.
However, the more he researched, the more he leaned toward the Norwegian Ridgeback.
While the Ironbelly was a physical tank, the Ridgeback was a magical fortress. It was famous for its exceptionally hard, jet-black scales that didn't just resist spells—they had a natural property that could reflect low-level hexes and dampen the impact of Unforgivables. For a wizard who lived in a world of wands, magical resistance was far more valuable than raw muscle. Plus, the Ridgeback was slightly more aerodynamic, and Sebastian had no intention of being a slow, lumbering target.
"Sorry, Norbert," Sebastian muttered as he walked toward the dragon enclosure the following morning. "Time to contribute to the family business."
Norbert, the dragon Hagrid had 'parented' a year ago, was no longer the cute, fire-spitting baby he once was. He had grown into a sleek, dangerous adolescent, currently lounging in the sun and digesting a whole goat. He looked at Sebastian with one lazy, golden eye.
Sebastian didn't feel particularly guilty. He drew two large phials of blood with a painless extraction charm. Norbert barely even blinked, merely letting out a small puff of smoke from his nostrils as if to say, 'Just leave the goats coming, and you can have whatever you want.'
With the dragon blood secured, the real ordeal began: the traditional Animagus ritual.
For an entire month, Sebastian had to keep a single Mandrake leaf in his mouth. At first, it was a novelty. By day three, it was a nuisance. By day ten, it was an exercise in pure willpower. He had to eat with the precision of a surgeon, chewing only on the far side of his mouth to avoid bruising the leaf.
The worst part was the sleeping. He lived in constant fear of swallowing it in his sleep or spitting it out onto his pillow. After a particularly close call where he nearly choked on it during a dream about Quidditch, he decided to use a mild sticking charm to fuse the leaf to the roof of his mouth.
It worked, but it had a side effect: his mouth produced saliva like a leaky faucet.
"You're drooling again, dear," Mia would say with a playful smirk as they sat at the dinner table.
Sebastian would just glare at her, unable to speak clearly without sounding like he was gargling marbles. He spent a month sounding like a man who had forgotten how to use his tongue, communicating mostly through annoyed grunts and aggressive wand movements.
When the next full moon finally rose, Sebastian spat the leaf into a crystal vial with the relief of a man shedding a lead suit. His mouth felt strangely empty, but the ritual was moving forward. He added a single strand of his own hair, a teaspoon of silver dew that hadn't seen the sun, and the chrysalis of a Death's-head Hawkmoth.
The storage was the next hurdle. The mixture had to be kept in total darkness, undisturbed and unlooked-at, until a thunderstorm arrived. He couldn't just put it in a cupboard; he needed a place where the earth's natural magic would stabilize it. He took the vial deep into the Forbidden Forest, buried it three feet under an ancient rowan tree, and placed a series of 'Don't-Notice-Me' charms over the spot.
Now came the waiting game.
Every morning at dawn and every evening at dusk, Sebastian pointed his wand at his heart. "Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus," he chanted.
It was a meditative rhythm. By the second week, he felt it—a second, slower heartbeat deep within his chest. It was a cold, heavy pulse, vastly different from his own quick human rhythm. It was the heart of the Ridgeback, echoing across time and biology, waiting for the signal to wake up.
Weeks turned into months. Winter faded into a wet, grey spring. It wasn't until the Easter holidays that the Scottish weather finally cooperated.
The sky over Hogwarts turned the color of a fresh bruise. The air grew heavy and electric, and then, with a bone-shaking crack of thunder, the heavens opened. It wasn't just rain; it was a deluge.
"This is it!" Sebastian shouted over the roar of the wind.
He and Mia sprinted into the forest. With a flick of his wand, the earth at the foot of the rowan tree surged upward, presenting the small box. He opened it, shielded from the rain by Mia's perfect Impervius charm.
The vial had changed. The murky, greyish soup was now a brilliant, translucent crimson—the color of a dying star.
"It's perfect," Mia whispered, her eyes reflecting the lightning flashes. "Sebastian, are you sure about the blood-processing? If Slytherin's notes were wrong about the filtering..."
"I didn't use Slytherin's filters, Mia. I used my own," Sebastian replied, his voice calm despite the storm.
He took out the processed dragon blood—now stripped of Norbert's 'will' and reduced to pure genetic information—and mixed it with the potion. The vial hissed, the red turning into a deep, regal purple that seemed to swallow the surrounding light.
Sebastian didn't hesitate. He wasn't a man who feared the unknown; he was a man who conquered it. He pressed his wand to his chest one last time.
"Amato, Animo, Animato, Animagus."
The words felt like they had weight, like he was speaking a law into existence. He uncorked the vial and swallowed the liquid in a single, burning gulp.
The sensation was immediate and violent. It didn't feel like a potion; it felt like he had swallowed a handful of hot coals. The heat spread from his stomach to his fingertips in a fraction of a second. His vision blurred, replaced by a flood of sensory information that his human brain couldn't process.
He saw heat signatures. He felt the vibration of the thunder through the soles of his feet as if the earth were a drum.
And then came the Image.
In the center of his mind, a massive, black-scaled dragon roared. But unlike Slytherin's accounts, this dragon didn't try to bite him. It didn't have a consciousness of its own. It was a suit of armor made of flesh and fire, waiting for him to step inside.
"It's working," he thought, though 'thinking' was becoming difficult as his jaw began to elongate and his skin began to itch with the pressure of a thousand emerging scales.