After revising the passage in the book for the umpteenth time, Harry sighed, closed it, and moved to the centre of the room.
His eyes closed and he turned his attention inwards.
As always, the prickling sensation over his arms came first and he knew that he was growing feathers in place of the usual hair on his skin. His clothes rippled and flattened against his body before his torso also began to take on that tingling feeling. The bones in his arms and legs began to shift, scraping against each other, even as his butt changed and he felt long tail feathers growing from there.
And then it stopped.
As it always did.
Harry opened his eyes and took stock of his new body. Mostly, he was bird-like. Exactly what type of bird was anyone's guess. The problem was that his head refused to transform. And he remained the same size.
Yep. He'd developed some kind of block. The book even said that this could happen. Not that it really offered any kind of solution.
With a sigh, Harry reversed the transformation. He'd been stuck at this point for weeks now. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to bite the bullet and talk to someone who'd successfully become an Animagus, someone who could coach him past this block.
One name instantly came to mind. There was only one problem with that – she was in Britain, a place that Harry had no real interest in going.
ooo00ooo
"Doctor Curtis Connors."
The man in question lifted his head from the text that he was reading and turned to face the small window set into the door of his cell. The face on the other side was not one that he recognised, a fact that the slight German accent should have told him anyway.
"Yes. Can I help you?" Curt replied.
It'd been months since he'd first been incarcerated in Beloit Psychiatric Hospital, a place that Curt didn't think that he actually belonged in. No, he wasn't insane. A criminal, yes, that certainly, after all, he'd hurt a great many people. But insane, no. He wasn't even dangerous any more, not since his body had absorbed the antidote to the lizard formula that he'd taken to transform into that savage beast.
But as much as he protested that he didn't need to be there, that a simple penitentiary would be a much better choice for him, his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Countless doctors of all sorts had practiced on him, most with one goal in mind: to get the formula out of him. But that was something that Curt would never give up. The formula that created the Lizard was simply too dangerous to be allowed out into the world.
And so, Curt had changed his tactic. Be meek, be mild, be helpful (except where it came to that damned formula), answer any other questions, force them to see that he wasn't insane, that he didn't belong here.
"My name is Doctor Daniel Whitehall," the man introduced himself. "I have been assigned to treat you."
"As you wish," Curt replied.
As he'd expected, the door swung open, admitting Doctor Whitehall and an assistant, an assistant who obediently placed a file into the waiting doctor's hand. Whitehall calmly perused the file, flipping page after page as he read through it. Finally, he looked up, his clear blue eyes looking interestedly at Curt through his black-rimmed round glasses.
"This says that you have been cooperative in most aspects," Doctor Whitehall stated. "Most aspects. The one area that you refuse to enlighten us on is the formula pertaining to the serum responsible for creating the Lizard."
"I will not tell you, or anyone else, what that formula is," Curt stated emphatically. "It is too dangerous to be in the hands of anyone."
"Anyone but yourself," Whitehall finished for him.
Curt shrugged. "Unfortunately, it is in my brain. If I could erase it from my mind, I would."
"Interesting," Doctor Whitehall said.
One hand slipped into the doctor's coat pocket before pulling out a tranquilizer gun, pointing it at Curt and pulling the trigger. Curt had just enough time to gasp, clasp one hand over the dart embedded his neck and pull it out before promptly keeling over and crashing to the floor.
"Prepare him for reprogramming," Doctor Connors stated, turning to leave the room.
"Doctor," the assistant called hesitantly. "Are you planning on turning him back into that … that thing again?"
"No," Whitehall replied, "the antidote in his system prevents that. The formula, however, has potential, potential that HYDRA may have a use for one day."
ooo00ooo
"Who are you? How'd you get in here?"
The harsh questions dissolved into hacking coughs and the questioner slumped back on his bed. A shaky hand reached over and eventually, after the third try, managed to grasp the glass of water on his bedside table. Drops rained down over the floor and the bedsheets as the water splashed over the side due to the man's inability to keep the glass steady.
By the time that he'd managed a couple of sips, enough to quieten the coughing fit, his laboured breathing had evened out. With one hand on his chest as though to make sure that his heart was still beating, the man opened his eyes to check on his uninvited visitor.
In the time that he'd needed to steady himself, Norman found that the black-suited man had pulled up a chair and had seated himself beside the bed. One knee was crossed and his hands lay innocently in his lap, an innocence that Norman failed to believe. Beside the chair, a briefcase sat upright where it had been deposited.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Norman demanded in his scratchy voice, a voice he was pleased to hear didn't dissolve into a coughing fit or simply peter out.
"My name is unimportant," the man stated. "As to what I want … let's just say that it's more what I can do for you."
"You? You're no doctor! What could you possibly do for me?" Norman asked.
It was an educated guess, but after so many years around the cursed profession, Norman was confident that he could spot a medical-man a mile off.
"Retroviral Hypodisplasia," the man in black stated. "That is the name of the disease that you suffer from. Genetic, I believe, at least, so I've been told. Really, I know little about it. Other than it's a horrid way to die. And die you will, soon apparently."
"I know that," Norman spat. "If you're here to taunt me, save your breath. I know it all, exactly what this disease is, what it's doing to me and what it's going to do. I also know that there's no cure."
"Ah, but what if I told you that there was?" the man asked.
Norman's eyes bugged out and his green-tinged hand with the long fingernails reflexively, imploringly, reached out.
"I'll give you anything for it. Name your price," Norman stated.
The man sat there momentarily, his head cocked to one side, apparently considering the request silently.
"Unfortunately, I am not the one who owns the cure," the man eventually replied.
"What do you want? A finder's fee? Fine, name your price, just tell me who has the cure," Norman asked, his frustration building.
"My price is that, once you're cured, you listen to a little presentation that my colleagues have prepared. Listen and give the proposal careful consideration."
Norman stared at the man. That was it? Listen to a proposal? He'd sat through hundreds no thousands of the things in his lifetime, one more was nothing.
"Deal," Norman replied. "Now. Tell me who has the cure."
The man's lips curved upwards slightly. "Norman Osborn."
"What? Don't you think I'd know if I had the cure to save my own life?" Norman near-screeched, or as close to as his failing body was capable of. "Get out of here. Leave me alone."
The man, of course, simply ignored Norman's order.
"The cure is in two parts," the man stated, "both located in the sub-basement level at Oscorp Tower. The first is a serum derived from the venom of genetically-enhanced spiders. My researchers tell me that this serum has the potential to accelerate the Retroviral Hypodisplasia. However, there is a prototype exo-skeleton suit that is designed to heal soldiers from even the most grievous of wounds. Theoretically, with your body in flux from the serum, it should heal you. You may not be quite the same man that you once were, but you'd be alive, even if you'd never be able to take the exo-skeleton off again."
Norman stared at the man, his mind whirling through the possibilities of what he knew of the two projects. Both projects had originally been designed as potential cures, both failed when put through simulations and tests. Never, as far as he was aware, had any of the projects been combined, though. Was it possible? Had he been sitting on a cure for all these years? Norman knew his prognosis – he had weeks left. Assuming he was lucky. And if this killed him quickly, well, it was a win-win scenario wasn't it?
"Take me to Oscorp," he commanded.
.
.
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