Disclaimer: Characters, settings, and themes from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I neither own, nor am making profit from the writing or sharing of this story.
Flames cracked along his skin, melting the countryside evening that had him in its thrall. Slowly, achingly, Harry Potter moved each finger, each toe, each agonizingly stiff joint. It wasn't until his body had been freed from its frigid captivity that his eyes popped open, alert to the rich tones of earth and grass. He groaned as he took in the sight of his dirt-caked hands and feet. Surely, there would be smears on his face as well. With nothing else to do but scrub the moon's memories away, Harry planted a hand on one knee and hefted himself upright. The fog of a steaming shower would serve to replace the haze swirling through his mind.
Shortly after falling into bed, Harry felt it again. It hadn't stopped since the night he left. For months, he tried to ignore it, tried locking himself away until he couldn't fight it anymore. He'd even given in to Hermione's pitying side-glances and proffered vials of dreamless sleep. They did nothing to quell the uneasiness that rumbled through his chest and dropped low into his belly each time he breathed. There, it snarled like a waiting dragon, flame hot and bellowing.
In the weeks since he'd allowed himself to be, to move, to feel like anything other than some shamble-man, Harry could feel it calling to him. It sought him in dreams, it called him from the long hallways of the small cottage he lived in, now alone. It reached out and took hold of him until he followed its smoky tendrils back to that place. Always that place. Always when he was not himself, either. He never remembered where it was clearly enough to get back, but somehow his other self found it easily.
Tonight would be like the last. He wasn't sure how much more he could take. This heat was burning him alive from the inside out and his lungs were on fire, but if he could just breathe the flames, he might be all right. It was a shame all he could do was inhale the night air like it was a hail storm put there precisely to irritate his already sensitive skin. Tonight would be painful—not gentle, not quick. The almost-moon rose and Harry was pulled from himself, thrown into that other part of his being that was just a bit too much other for him to wrap around.
There. There. It's there. Follow. He bellowed and gnashed his teeth as bones reformed. His knuckles drug along the ground, one back leg already popping into place while the other was a mass of bloody human skin morphing into a sleek, dark brown blur. He cried out once when his jaw reset. That was always the most painful, as it sent a wave of sound ricocheting through his skull, now more elongated and aerodynamic. Dig. There. Dig. No questions. He was beyond questions. His body knew and obeyed. Paws struck the earth, claws striking the fresh dirt and shucking it between his back legs. As he sunk slowly into the ground beneath himself, he paused.
There! Found! Dig! He was frantic now. At one point, a fox came 'round the outskirts of a nearby tree, fleeing some overhead predator and ran across his path. The snarl barely left his lips before teeth sunk into the creature's flank, a warning bite, but enough to send it scurrying off faster than it arrived. He was nearly surrounded by the mountain of dirt now; his haunches still up on the bank. Some of it was falling back into the hole as he dug and this required more effort. It was there. Just a bit more. He stopped. Cautiously, head tilted, he leaned forward and sniffed at the dirt in front of him. It smelled like… him. Why did it smell like him? He whimpered, sniffing again. Gone. The wolf sat back on its haunches, exhausted and confused. Home. He spun around, tucked his tail around his nose, and fell asleep. There, he could smell him as he slept, and the dragon was quiet.