Umbras ? Harry Potter

August 2, 1993 • Briarwood Manor

Ciara had spent the past month in a delicate balancing act—both figuratively and literally. Keeping a Mandrake leaf tucked in her mouth for an entire moon cycle without swallowing it had been an exercise in sheer willpower. She had nearly lost it on several occasions—once when she sneezed, another time when she was eating, and almost every morning when the bitter taste made her stomach churn. The leaf had become an ever-present weight on her tongue, a reminder of the grueling process she had undertaken.

But she had persevered.

Ciara had spent the past two years immersing herself in the study of Animagi, captivated ever since she first saw Professor McGonagall seamlessly shift into a sleek tabby cat before her very eyes. The transformation had seemed effortless, yet she knew the magic behind it was anything but simple. The idea of mastering such a skill fascinated her—not just the challenge of bending one's form to nature's will, but the possibilities it offered. If she could become an animal, she wouldn't just be learning magic; she would be claiming a kind of freedom that few witches and wizards ever experienced.

That freedom, however, came at a cost—one paid in patience, precision, and rare ingredients. Most of what she needed had been gathered in careful, secretive steps. The Death's-head hawkmoth chrysalis had been found clinging to the underside of a branch in her mother's conservatory, and she had plucked it with steady hands, marveling at its delicate patterns. The dew had been more of a challenge; a week ago, before the first light of dawn, she had crept outside with a silver spoon, gathering the glistening drops into a clean, airtight vial. Each step brought her closer to what she wanted most, but she knew she wasn't finished yet.

She plucked the Mandrake leaf from her mouth, spitting it into the small glass vial. The sight of it there, curled at the bottom like an old relic, filled her with quiet triumph.

One by one, she added the remaining ingredients: the strand of her own hair, and finally, the moth chrysalis, its pale husk gleaming faintly as it settled among the mixture. With deliberate care, she sealed the vial and placed it inside a small wooden box, ensuring no stray light could reach it.

Now, all she could do was wait.

That was the most maddening part—knowing the final step lay outside her control. The potion had to remain undisturbed in total darkness until the next electrical storm, whenever that might be. Ciara had expected the wait to be quite short due to her location in the world, but nothing came.

She had done everything right, yet the skies remained stubbornly silent.

Each morning and each night, she performed the next necessary step—reciting the incantation "Amato Animo Animato Animagus" with unwavering focus. At first, it had felt like an exciting ritual, a tether to the magic she was working toward. But as the days stretched into weeks without a storm, it became a frustrating reminder of what she couldn't control. The words that once felt powerful now rang hollow in the still summer air.

She found herself pacing the halls of Briarwood Manor more often, glancing at the sky through tall windows, hoping to catch the first signs of a storm. Scotland, of all places, should have given her something by now.

When the waiting became unbearable, she turned to another challenge.

She had been practicing her Patronus charm in secret for months, but no matter how hard she tried, she could only produce silvery wisps of mist. The idea that her Animagus and Patronus might be linked had intrigued her, and she had convinced herself that if she could master one, perhaps it would strengthen her connection to the other.

But casting a fully-formed Patronus was easier said than done.

She spent hours in the manor's library, wand poised, drawing on the happiest memories she could muster. She thought of warm afternoons spent in the gardens with her mother, of winning her first duel in class, of the rare moments of peace at Hogwarts when she curled up with a book by the fire. The mist would swirl, brighter than before, but it never solidified.