Stellarlune

The pack ripped through the forest, pounds upon pounds of muscle rippling, moving too fast for the eye to see, running, leaping over logs, fallen branches and plants. At the head of the pack, a silver creature ran. She was feral, a vision of terror, with snarling jaws and strides swift.

 She ran sure footedly, ears erect, pursuing a stray deer that had wandered from its pack. She howled with abandon, increasing her speed.

Her coat rippled and gleamed with a light of its own, the pack running in a v formation behind her.

She barked once, sharp and commanding.

Two broke away, running ahead, cutting off the deer from the front, while two more flanked both sides.

 The deer was beautiful, different shades of brown with speckled white spots prettily covering her back. Her belly was pure white, the swelling just barely visible. She had recently given birth to a fawn, then.

She skittered about nervously, facing this way and that, but she had no choice. She reluctantly turned to face the leader, with the rigid certainty of somebody who knows her fate. That she was going to die.

The silver wolf's eyes glinted with intelligence, and she lunged forward, trapping the deer to the ground, her unsheathed paws holding her down by her neck. She locked eyes with the deer, who was trembling with fear and exhaustion.

This was no simple kill.

There was nothing simple about it. Now, the wolf herself seemed submissive, as if asking for the life of the deer, and it, in turn, was seemingly responding in the silence by saying "I am valuable. I am worthy. My meat will sustain you. Take me."

The wolf growled and made the killing slash.

A clean cut, a final gasp, and the deer was gone. Almost immediately, she threw back her head, and howled. Bending her head, she tasted her prize, savoring the rich smell of blood and the meat in her mouth.

She stepped back, the rest of the pack surged forward, taking this as their cue to feast, and afterwards, the young ones, who had not yet earned the right to hunt, had their turn. Slowly, unseen, the silver wolf slipped into the shadows, running the forest trails until she reached its edge, the last trees overlooking a large stretch of land, with rolling meadows, and a dilapidated house visible in the middle of that nowhere.

A minute later, anybody closely watching would be able to see the silver wolf fluidly change shape, paws morphing into sleek fingers, rising from four to two feet, never missing a step. It was a girl.

A bushy haired, slender figure.

I cracked my neck to the side. I was still sore from that fall in the forest. But Hermione Granger did not just get 'sore'. No.

I collected my books and my quills from their usual resting spot beneath the old, wispy willow and set off at a brisk walk towards the cottage. It was my new home. Or, at least, my parents' home. I was just a temporary resident. Hermi Oswald.

That was the name they knew me by. I was greeted politely by Mum as I stepped over the threshold. The name that was paying them a rent for temporary residence for the summer.

"Breakfast is on the table, dear. Feel free to help yourself."

I gave her a nod and a smile, trying my best not to let the hurt show on my face. Sitting down for breakfast with both of them was simultaneously the best and worst experience of my life.

Awkward smiles, and gestures of politeness were all I was able to manage. Most of my time I spent outside, among the mustard fields, with only my books to keep me company. I'd rather spend time with them as their daughter, not a stranger.

It gave me a weird kind of ache in my belly, knowing what I had lost, what I'd had to sacrifice for the war.

Maybe their comfort, their safety would be enough for my peace of mind. The same sentence I repeated every time in my head when they saw me, and when every time, with them, I felt…..un-family-like.

The weeks were rushing by, and my attempts to gain a reprieve from the nightmares grew more desperate by the day. Harry and Ron had gone through worse, but they had been strong enough to overcome the worst of it. Not me, though.

The Golden Girl, brought down to her knees by her mind, the brain that had helped win the war.  How ironic.

I kept my room warded and silenced at night, so they wouldn't hear the screams. I couldn't bear to let my parents go through that kind of torture again. They had already stumbled upon me once, and then watched. Watched in silent horror how I twisted and turned in the threadbare sheets, body strung tight with the memory of pain, the constant looming shadow of danger.

I had woken up panting, only to see two frightened silhouettes standing by my bedside, frozen in shock. It had taken me days to convince them that I was okay.

I wasn't, though.

My brain was going crazy, over-thinking, over-imagining every single situation, spiraling out of my control. 

I had nothing to distract my hyperactive mind. Nothing.

That is, until I tried my hand at Partial body transfiguration. And then, gradually, to full body transformations.

I knew it was difficult. But at that point, I needed difficult. I needed the stress, the work involved to get through.

I needed to master myself, my body control, my movements, my mind…

I had tried conjuring a Patronus the other day. Tried for a corporeal form. The barest I could manage were small wisps of silver. I imagine the otter changed as well.

Just like me.

And now here I am. The only wolf Animagi in Britain.

Summer came and went. Autumn was almost over as well. The new term at Hogwarts was about to begin. I doubted most witches and wizards would even consider it safe anymore.

Only the Loyalists would encourage.

And then the decree passed.

Kingsley Shacklebolt for Minister.

All seventh year students must return to Hogwarts to complete their education. "The Wizarding World was in need of order and discipline," he insisted, and more and more people started to look up to him in the hope that he would be the new face of magic.

So that the burden wouldn't be borne by anybody else.

Anybody capable of evil.

And so, it was back at the station I found myself on September 1st, clutching a small backpack, and a trunk sized down to my requirements.  I'm enveloped in a crushing grip, and for a moment, my heart stutters with fear.

It's Harry and Ron.

A tumble of relieved sighs and "Where were you, Mione? " and "Thank god you're okay" and "Why do you look so thin?"

I reassure them with a smile. "Hey yourself, you two."

I look them over, once. Both of them spent the summer at the Burrow, nursing old wounds and helping the Weasleys, Harry especially, from the loss of the cherished twin.

I suppose he must have felt responsible somehow. Harry always took on others’ burdens alongside his own. It was a habit that had never stopped, even after the war. His eyes were sunken, slightly, and purple smudges stood out from the pale face like bruises from sleepless nights.

Ron was pretty much the same. Although his lankiness had disappeared almost completely, his hair were limp and his clothes billowed out loosely from his wan frame. "Here's to another year of books and rivalry." I hugged them both tightly, trying to leach the little happiness I had collected from seeing my parents again over the summer to both of them.

They looked…. tired.

The whistle blew, steam billowing around us. Final call.

I ushered Harry and Ron in before me, lending a hand with their trunks and packs. They heaved themselves up and onto the train, reaching for the metal bar attached to the side door for support. I was halfway up myself before a shimmer of silver caught my eye.

He had immaculate robes. The Slytherin green of his haphazard tie stood out, just as it had done all those years ago. The swirling dark grey that was his eyes glinted with conflict, long fingered hands twitching at his sides, half forming shapes and signs probably known only to himself.

A strategist. The war had changed him.

He stood on the platform alone, a silhouette amidst the smoke. Almost like if he was considering whether to board the train or not. He hadn't seen me yet. His blonde hair fell softly across his forehead, outlining his face. High cheekbones complimented lifeless eyes.

He had been through enough. And yet, a curl of that familiar rage and hate licked its way across my mind. We had been through more. Harry…Ron…Ginny….Fred. If only he had been strong enough to face his darkness. He would have saved us from ours.