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The moon was a sliver of bone in the night sky, a coward's moon. It offered no light, and for that, Harry Potter was grateful. Here, in the damp, brick-lined alley behind a disused London warehouse, the darkness was his ally.
His breath plumed in the frigid air. Three weeks until the full moon. The constant, buzzing energy beneath his skin was a live wire, making his senses sing a razor-sharp song. He could smell the rot of forgotten rubbish, the damp moss between the bricks, the faint, coppery tang of blood from a block away. He could hear the scuttle of a rat's claws on concrete, the whisper of his own wool coat sleeve as he adjusted his grip on his wand.
"He's in there, Potter," whispered Dawlish, his voice too loud in the preternatural silence. The older Auror shifted his weight, his bulk a hulking shadow beside Harry's lanky, coiled frame. "The Lestrange wannabe. Robards wants him alive for questioning."
Alive. The word was a cage. Harry's jaw tightened, the muscle twitching near the lightning scar that now seemed to pulse with a rhythm of its own. He could feel the beast in his chest, the one that wore his own face, pacing behind his ribs. It liked the hunt. It liked the smell of fear. It didn't understand 'alive'.
"I'll take point," Harry said, his voice low and gravelly. It was less a request and more a statement of fact. He didn't wait for a reply.
The warehouse door groaned on rusted hinges, a sound that screamed through Harry's heightened hearing like a physical blow. Inside, the darkness was absolute to a normal man. To Harry, it was a landscape of grey and silver. He moved through the forest of rusted machinery and forgotten crates with a predator's grace, Dawlish a clumsy echo behind him.
He found their target not by sight, but by scent. Cheap firewhisky, unwashed flesh, and the bitter, acrid stink of Dark Magic—the kind that left a stain on the soul.
The man—a boy, really, no older than Harry had been during the final battle—leapt from behind a pillar, his wand slashing. "Sectumsempra!"
The curse, one Harry knew all too well, flew wide, gouging a deep scar into the brick wall. The violence of it, the familiar, cruel intent, was a key turning in a lock inside him. A hot, possessive anger flared. His curse. His battle. His kill.
"Stupefy!" Dawlish roared from behind.
The red jet of light missed, and the boy retaliated. "Confringo!"
The Blasting Curse struck a metal vat near Dawlish. The explosion was deafening, a concussive wave of sound and heat that sent the older Auror flying, his body slamming into a wall with a sickening crunch before he slumped, motionless.
Silence, thick and heavy, descended once more. The scent of blood—Dawlish's blood—now filled the air, rich and metallic. It was a trigger.
The boy panted, his eyes wide with triumph and fear. He turned his wand on Harry. "The great Harry Potter. The Ministry's attack dog. Come to put me down?"
Harry didn't speak. He couldn't. The hum under his skin had become a roar. The world narrowed to the frantic pulse in the boy's throat, the sweat beading on his forehead. The beast was at the gate, rattling the bars, salivating.
"Cruc—"
The boy never finished the curse.
Harry moved.
It wasn't a Apparition. It was a burst of pure, feral speed, a gift and a curse of the approaching moon. He crossed the twenty-foot distance in a blur, his wand forgotten in his hand. His left fist, driven by a strength no merely human wizard possessed, connected with the boy's jaw. The crack of bone was louder than the explosion had been.
The boy dropped, unconscious before he hit the ground.
But Harry didn't stop.
He stood over the limp form, his chest heaving. The possessive, violent warmth was a fire in his veins. The beast wanted more. It wanted to ensure the threat was gone. Permanently. His fingers, curled into claws, twitched. His vision tinged with a haze of predatory green. He could smell the boy's fear-sweat, the coppery blood from his split lip. It smelled like… victory.
"Harry."
The voice was a whisper in his mind, a lifeline of reason woven from bushy brown hair and a tone of unwavering logic. Hermione.
"He's done. It's over. Control it."
A tremor wracked his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, the bright green irises burning against his lids. He focused on the memory of Wolfsbane Potion—the taste of ash and iron, the chill that soothed the fire. He focused on Ron's hand on his shoulder, a grounding weight. He focused on Teddy's laugh.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed the beast back into its kennel. The hot anger receded, leaving a cold, hollow shame in its wake.
He opened his eyes. The world was just the world again. Dark, cold, and real.
He knelt, his movements stiff, and checked the boy's pulse. Alive. He had followed orders.
Then he turned and walked to Dawlish. He was breathing, a deep gash on his forehead. He'd live, too.
As the emergency Portkey activated somewhere in the Ministry, signaling the arrival of the cleanup crew, Harry stood alone in the center of the warehouse. He looked down at his own hands—the hands that had held the Elder Wand, that had sought the Snitch, that now trembled with the aftermath of a violence he both despised and craved.
He was the hero of the Wizarding World. He was an Auror, a protector.
And in the deep, silent places of his soul, where the moonlight couldn't reach, the wolf was already counting the days.
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Werewolf Harry Potter