Chapter 127: The Horcrux Codex and the Animagus

After the Christmas holiday, Malfoy was taken away by his father again; it was said he broke his leg while walking downstairs at night, and this became the latest gossip at Hogwarts, with Malfoy mocked for several days.

At breakfast today, Harry and his friends were still talking about it, and every time they brought it up, everyone burst into laughter.

Neville laughed as he glanced up at the enchanted ceiling.

“The owls will be here soon—I think my grandmother will send me a few things I forgot.”

Silven had just taken a bite of toast when, sure enough, a noisy commotion erupted above him as hundreds of owls burst in, dropping letters and packages into the crowd.

A large gray package plummeted from above, crashing onto the Gryffindor table and knocking over every plate, spilling milk and pumpkin juice everywhere.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked, half a piece of toast still dripping pumpkin juice from his hand.

His own pot had just been knocked over, half its pumpkin juice splashing straight over him.

“Sorry. That’s my package.” Silven said, quickly retrieving it from the table.

As Harry wiped his hair, he suddenly noticed a letter resting in his own dish—the sender’s name was completely unfamiliar to him.

Wait… Ollivander…

“Silven, this must be for you too,” Harry said, handing him the letter. “It got blown over to me earlier.”

“Yes,” Silven said, glancing at the letter casually. “It’s from my father.”

“What did he send you?” Ron asked curiously.

Silven opened the package to reveal a large brown flowerpot filled with soil.

“They sent you a potted plant?” Ron stared at the slender branch with green leaves growing from the pot’s surface. “They sent a plant by owl?”

“Ron, this isn’t just any plant!” Hermione said.

“I don’t see anything special about it,” Ron said, touching the leaves and sniffing the topmost purple flower.

It looked exactly like an ordinary plant—nothing different from the ones growing around the Weasleys’ garden.

“That’s mandrake,” Neville said suddenly.

Hermione’s open mouth snapped shut. She shot Ron an exasperated look. “Sometimes I really wonder if you’ve ever attended Herbology class—we learned this three months ago.”

“Impossible,” Ron said. “I remember mandrake leaves don’t look like this. Don’t try to trick me.”

“Professor Sprout showed us young mandrakes,” Neville explained. “Once mature, the leaves shrink and purple flowers grow.”

“Silven, is this really your father’s gift?” His voice was full of disbelief.

Such plants were rare—and more importantly, a mature mandrake’s cry could be lethal…

More people realized this at once. The next second, everyone around Silven scattered, standing far away as if fearing the mandrake’s roots might burst from the soil at any moment.

“Don’t be so tense,” Silven said, half-laughing. “You don’t think I’d pull it out, do you?”

Hearing this, a few of them cautiously approached again.

Hermione led the way, but it was clear she was still nervous.

Even if Silven wouldn’t pull it out, what if it fell and shattered?

In a way, this plant was even more terrifying than a dragon—at least you could try to run from a dragon.

“Relax, it’s perfectly safe,” Silven said, gripping several slender branches and yanking upward.

“Ah!” Hermione let out an involuntary scream, nearly piercing Harry’s eardrums.

But after the scream, she realized the mandrake hadn’t moved at all—not even a single clump of soil had shifted.

“This pot is enchanted,” Silven explained. “The mandrake’s roots can’t be pulled out, and the pot itself is reinforced with a strengthening charm—it won’t break even if dropped from fifty feet. Don’t worry.”

Everyone finally breathed easier, then immediately crowded around Silven again.

“It really is mandrake…”

“Undoubtedly,” Silven said.

“But why would your parents send you this?” Neville asked, puzzled.

Mandrake was valuable, but far too dangerous for ordinary cultivation—especially a mature one.

“Oh, maybe they thought it looked nice,” Silven replied vaguely.

In truth, he intended to begin his Animagus transformation—and fresh mandrake leaves were required.

He’d first tried to get some from the school greenhouse, but for some reason, Professor Sprout had hidden all the mandrakes—even the soil was gone.

Buying them wouldn’t work either; The Dangerous Human Transformations mentioned that fresh leaves, plucked immediately, were best for Animagus transformation.

Even if ordered from Diagon Alley, delivery would take at least half a day.

With no other option, Silven wrote his parents a letter, falsely claiming he was interested in Herbology and wanted to grow a mandrake for daily observation.

His parents were both wizards specializing in magical plants—obtaining a mandrake was trivial for them.

Though they didn’t doubt his excuse, they took necessary precautions, enchanting the pot.

Not only could the mandrake not be pulled out, but the pot was sturdy enough to resist normal damage—only a powerful spell could break it.

All of this was written in the letter.

To Garian and Lila, this was perfectly safe.

They never imagined Silven wanted to learn Animagus transformation—who would attempt it in second year?

After breakfast, Silven carried the mandrake back to his dormitory, plucked a single leaf, washed it, and placed it in his mouth.

The first step in learning Animagus transformation: on the night of a full moon, hold a leaf in your mouth—do not swallow or spit it out—until the next full moon.

Fortunately, today was the full moon.

If he’d received it tomorrow, he’d have had to wait a month—Silven was quietly relieved.

But by nightfall, he accidentally chewed the leaf while talking to Harry.

A bitter, astringent taste flooded his mouth—even fried pork chops lost their appeal.

Yet Silven suddenly remembered: the day wasn’t over yet. So perhaps the full moon still counted.

Back in his dorm, he replaced the chewed leaf with a fresh one.

…

The next morning, Hermione looked at Silven’s listless expression. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I slept fine,” Silven sighed. It was precisely because he slept too well—he woke up to find the leaf, which should have been in his mouth, resting on his pillow.

Clearly, he’d unconsciously spat it out in his sleep because it felt uncomfortable.

There was no choice now—he’d have to wait for the next full moon. But during this time, Silven planned to practice more, so he kept the leaf in his mouth instead of discarding it.

The sensation was extremely awkward—eating and speaking were both uncomfortable. After a Transfiguration class, Professor McGonagall immediately noticed the problem.

Observing that Silven’s speech had become muffled, she realized at once: he was attempting Animagus transformation.

After class, she kept him behind and asked directly: “Where did you get the mandrake?”

Pomona had been warned repeatedly and moved nearly mature mandrakes into the ninth greenhouse, off-limits to students—Silven shouldn’t have been able to find any.

“I… I bought it,” Silven said, lips pressed tight, nearly swallowing the leaf.

“You…” Professor McGonagall glared at him. “How dare you? You’ve only read books for a few months and you’re attempting Animagus transformation? Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?”

“I’m just… preparing,” Silven shook his head, spat out the leaf. “I won’t attempt transformation yet—I’m only completing the necessary preparations.”

“I’ve read Modern Transfiguration. It says many wizards spend years on this first step—wizard Baltar spent twenty years and never succeeded.”

Professor McGonagall’s lips twitched. She hadn’t expected Silven to know that.

Baltar, an American wizard, a senior Transfiguration master, equal in skill to her—but he could never become an Animagus.

He couldn’t hold a mandrake leaf in his mouth until the next full moon. He was stuck on the first step for twenty years.

And not just Baltar—Dumbledore too.

The legendary White Wizard, Albus Dumbledore, former Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts, could not perform Animagus transformation.

It sounded like a joke—but it was true. He always chewed the mandrake leaf during meals. For five years, he never succeeded.

But this was a secret—only Professor McGonagall knew. Everyone else simply assumed Dumbledore didn’t need the spell.

“I just want to finish the preparations,” Silven said. “When I’m ready to attempt transformation, I won’t waste extra time.”

“For normal wizards… well, most wizards, this step isn’t difficult,” Professor McGonagall said. “Most succeed within six months. Why rush so much?”

Silven only smiled.

He hadn’t been in a hurry—until he accidentally created the Horcrux Codex and discovered its [Magic Follows] property.

It’s well known that after Animagus transformation, a wizard cannot use a wand—not even a senior Transfiguration master like McGonagall. But what if he didn’t need to hold one?

A wizard’s magic doesn’t vanish when transformed into an animal—and [Magic Follows] could actively draw magic from Silven himself.

Perhaps he could become the first wizard to wield a wand in animal form… if the animal was small enough, enemies wouldn’t even have time to react.

…

(End of Chapter)