Disclaimer: Characters, settings, themes, etc. from the Harry Potter universe are property of J.K Rowling. I make no profit from the writing or sharing of this story.
He left. He left everything he knew and everyone he loved—because a part of him could no longer keep them safe.
Being alone comforted him. He felt the earth beneath his toes and the energy of life around him as it grew each spring and faded each autumn. In this, he found a sort of rhythm—a cycle—that eased the ache in his chest as he watched the waxing moon swell over the small clearing.
He knows when it's coming. The thing inside him is restless—angry—waiting to be free. So often he pushes it aside, pushes it away, but when the time comes, he cannot run. He cannot hide in the trees, buried beneath the scent of pine and earthen things.
No.
No—he must face it. He must allow the beast inside him to become.
When it's done, when it's over, and he's allowed back inside his skin, he returns to the pine needles and the soft bed he's made beneath the moon. He doesn't mind the stains on his feet or the leaves in his hair. As his chin tucks against his chest, all he knows is that they are safe because he is here, and they are not.