He cradled his head in his hands, gripping and tugging at the hair, the pain a distraction from his panic. His breath came in short angry barks as he processed his memories. Why was he still here? The Aconite should have been enough to stop his heart and release him from this constant agony.

He released his hair and looked at his hands, the nails were dirty and splintered, on thin skeletal hands, looking more like a dementor than a human. He screamed in frustration as he stood up and punched the wall. Why did it have to be her? is raced around his mind like a greyhound on a track. Why her, why her, why her?

He growled, feeling the wolf stretch inside, so close to bursting free. The wolf growled back, as it fidgeted impatiently waiting for its release. The scent of cherries filling the air around him. He tried to howl as tears came to his eyes. Cherries everywhere, on his skin, his clothes even in his mouth and nose. He started to pace, but there was no escape.

"Neville?" A voice croaked from the door,

"What?" he turned angrily. His Gran stood in the doorway looking so much weaker than she had done when they were younger. He didn't mean to be angry with her, but he could have ended it if only she hadn't meddled.

"I made you a brew," she said, offering him the mug. He lashed out, knocking the cup from her hand, sending the hot tea across the room.

"Why was she here?" He growled, his wolf caring nothing for the flinch she gave at the outburst.

"That was your favourite mug," She said with a shake of her head. "You'll be cross about that tomorrow," She muttered summoning the shards of china from the wet floor. "I'll try and mend it," She said, turning to the door and disappearing. He growled again.

"What was she doing here?" He shouted, following her into the kitchen.

"She's a healer," She replied quietly without looking up from the broken mug.

"No, she's not!" he scoffed

"She came with Healer Sloane, She's training to be."

"She's a gossip and a liar!" Her growled, the doorway seeming too small to hold him.

"What? No, Healer Proctor seemed very capable and reliable,"

"Who?"

"That girl,"

"Proctor?" He laughed and stormed back into the other room, the anxious energy that always came with the shift bubbling up under the surface.

"Yes,"

"That was a Parkinson, Gran. Pansy Parkinson!"

"What?" She called, horrified.

"She sold some of those stories about Harry to Rita Skeeter during the Triwizards tournament,"

There was silence, and he wondered whether the buzz of anxiety filled her heart as it did his. "She'll be at the prophet offices as we speak telling them everything,"

He slid down the wall, the realisation dawning on him that it was probably true. He closed his eyes and frowned, his chest hurt. He wondered how much was damage from the Aconite and how much was heartbreak.

He had fancied her for as long as he could remember but he hated her. Hated that she made him feel so inadequate, that she was still so perfect and untouched by the war when he was so, so ruined.

He growled and closed his eyes, refusing to recall anything from that damned battle. Those accusing blue eyes would haunt him until he final breath her voice echoed in his ears. Just his name, a question, and then nothing.

He clawed at the air as he climbed to his feet, his energy levels keeping him from sitting still.

How could she be so untouched and why could he taste her? he cried out in frustration his mind warring with his body just as his body battled the wolf. Why had it been her? She was everywhere. The wolf sniffed the air contentedly rolling in her scent within his lungs and he shivered.

"She'll ruin us," he roared as he began to pace again.

The day passed in fleeting moments of regret and remorse in an overwhelming ocean of anger. This could have all been finished. He could have been free had she not saved him.

Remembering waking up and seeing her lying there motionless had shaken him. She had featured in so many dreams where that had been the outcome of his anger that to suddenly be faced with the realisation of it had shaken him.

He rubbed at his arms as he looked at the clock. The sensation of ants up and down his skin always indicated that the change was imminent. Looking out into the kitchen for the thousandth time, he hoped Pansy had returned. But of course, she hadn't, who would? No one…

Disappointment overwhelmed him again when the room remained empty. Why would she come back? She knew everything she needed to report back to the Prophet, she didn't need him any more. He growled again as he tried lying in the cot she had transfigured. Her magic vibrated through it, the scent of cherries strongest here. He pushed his palms into his eyes.

For the briefest of moments, he had hoped that he wouldn't be alone when the moon rose, that just knowing she would be on the other side of the door would help him accept the change. But of course, she hadn't come back. No one ever came back.

He dissolved into fat, pitiful tears as the tip of the moon rose above the horizon. The door shut, locking him in as the wolf stretched and seemingly grinned smugly at him. The sensation of ants fled his skin as the wolf expanded from within.

He howled as his skin stretched. The pain was immediate as bones broke and flesh shredded before reknitting itself together again. He remembered watching his thin skeletal hands grow and darken, his skin turning grey and hairy. His mind faded to instinct as Neville became a memory.