Please see the end of the chapter for trigger warnings.

Don't Look Back

- 26 -

Sweeter / Stranger

Every second counts.

She hears a professor call out her name. Maybe McGonagall, she isn't sure. She's already around the corner, racing down the corridor towards the nearest set of stairs.

There's no time — none at all. She knows that. But she has to try.

Malfoy's blind fear is like a stimulant coursing through her veins, 100 proof. She's completely consumed by it, and just as she knows there's not enough time, she knows there's no alternative. He needs Wolfsbane. And her feet guide her by pure instinct. Straight to that blank wall hiding the Room of Requirement.

Gathering a shaky breath, she shuts her eyes and forces herself to focus.

I need the Wolfsbane. I need it more than anything. Wolfsbane. Wolfsbane.

She urges these thoughts to supersede all else, so the room can make no mistake. But those black iron swirls should already be carving their way into the stone.

Let me in. I need to come in. Let me in.

Her eyes fly open. The wall in unchanged.

"What are you doing?" she demands of it, raising her palms to the stone. "Let me in."

Nothing.

Her pulse starts to hammer, and a hot spark of pain flashes through her hand as she slams it against the wall. "Let me in!"

"Hermione?"

She whips around, finding Neville jogging towards her from the opposite end of the corridor.

"I..." He staggers to a halt when he reaches her, winded. "I saw the Wolfsbane — in the Entrance Hall. Smelled it. What's — what's going on?"

There's no time for the detailed explanation he wants. "I need to brew more. Right now." She turns back to the wall, smacking it again. "But I can't get in. It won't let me in. I don't—"

"How much do you need?"

"What?"

"For the potion — how much Wolfsbane do you need?"

There's something in his voice that dares her to hope. She glances back at him, eyes a little wide. "Three stems."

Neville digs in his trouser pocket suddenly, pulling out a drawstring burlap pouch that's much too small. She's confused until he reaches inside and heaves out a two-foot potted ficus, setting it down on the floor out of the way.

Undetectable Extension Charm.

"They aren't completely fresh," he explains, elbow-deep in the bag now as he hunts around for it. At one point he appears to prick himself on something, face scrunching into a grimace. "I — ow — I harvested them this morning, but I — oh, here. Here they are." He pulls out a glass jar and holds it up between them, and seeing those violet petals is like catching her breath for the first time in hours.

Neville twists the jar and counts the slowly-wilting stems. "I have...erm, four? Yes. Four."

She wants to kiss him.

She takes the jar and throws her arms around his shoulders instead, squeezing tightly. "Thank you."

"I could — I can help, if you—"

She's already taking off down the corridor, plotting a course for the Potions classroom that doesn't involve passing the Great Hall. "You're safer here!" she calls, clutching the jar like a lifeline.

Every second counts.

The brew takes thirty minutes longer than it should, and by the time pure white smoke starts to rise from the cauldron, she's bitten her lips bloody.

Malfoy is sweating — breathing hard and curled into himself against a wall somewhere in the Shrieking Shack. She can feel every movement. Every panicked exhale. But his thoughts are so jumbled they're almost incoherent.

...never...

...don't know...

...what if I...

The moon's cruel glow has already begun to creep across the mountains. She can see it through the classroom windows, and it makes her hands shake as she tries to ladle the potion into an empty flask, whispering to herself all the while, "I can make it. I can. I can make it."

Or perhaps she can't.

The moment she sets foot outside the classroom, ready to run — to truly put her stamina to the test — she comes face to face with Adrian Pucey and two professors. Dumbledore and McGonagall.

"Miss Granger—" Professor McGonagall starts, reaching out with gentle hands, but the panic seizes her instantly.

"No. No, you can't. Please don't. Please don't." She tries to back up, but Adrian has worked his way behind her, forming something of a blockade.

"Miss Granger..." It's Dumbledore now, voice softer but hands raised in a very similar fashion. "Please try to remain calm."

"I — no, you don't — you don't understand." Shaking her head, she backs into the Potions door and clutches the flask against her chest, suddenly certain they're going to try to pry it away. "You don't understand."

"I am well aware of the situation," says Dumbledore. "Mr. Pucey came to me straight away. Rest assured, Mr. Malfoy is safely confined to the Shrieking Shack."

The concept is barbaric to her ears, and she feels the incredulity warp her features. "He has no Wolfsbane. How can you—"

"Wolfsbane is an aid, Miss Granger," says Professor McGonagall. "Not a necessity. Mr. Malfoy will simply transform as he has in the past."

"Simply?" she echoes, horrified. "Wolfsbane is a painkiller. A calming agent and a sedative. You expect him to go through this without any form of anesthetic? What sort of—"

"You are incensed, child — and understandably so." Dumbledore takes a delicate step towards her. "In my reading, I've learned of these symbiotic sensations between paramours. Though, it may comfort you to know that there has never been an instance in which a paramour has felt the pain of transformation. The bond is known to block it out—"

"You think I'm worried about myself?" she spits, taking an aggressive step towards him in turn. She has no concept of her tone. Of who she's speaking to. There's only Malfoy, alone and unprotected, taking up all the spaces in her mind. "I have to help him. I — I don't have a choice. I—"

Adrian cuts in then, stepping closer on her other side. She feels like she's being corralled into a cage.

"Malfoy told me himself. He'll be alright. It's nothing he can't handle."

"He's never done it before!" she hisses. "Not like this." But even as she speaks, she finds herself desperately searching the bond for it. Any evidence to convince her he's not boiling alive in his own fear.

She finds none.

No, in fact she can barely feel him at all now.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore raises his voice — enough to command attention. "Your distress is justified. But as Headmaster, it is my duty to shield you from harm. I am afraid there is nothing you can do for Mr. Malfoy at this time, save perhaps calming yourself down. The next several hours, however painful for him, will eventually pass. Disciplinary action will be taken with regard to Mr. McLaggen, and we will do everything in our power to ensure this never happens again. A reserve of Wolfsbane will be set aside for—"

"Wolfsbane has to be brewed fresh," she blurts, but Dumbledore raises that gentle hand again, silencing her.

"We shall make whatever preparations necessary, I assure you. Mr. Malfoy originally expressed a desire to manage his condition independently, but I see now that may no longer be an option."

Every inch of her itches, overwhelmed by discomfort. Uncertainty. "I don't—"

"You'll make it worse for him," says Adrian, matter-of-fact, and their eyes connect sharply. "If you go. You won't be able to help. You'll only make it worse."

You don't know that, she wants to say. You don't know our bond.

But the words never reach her throat.

Dumbledore's voice is softer when he speaks again. "I think a good night's rest would benefit the both of you. I could have Madam Pomfrey prepare a Sleeping Draught, if you—"

"No." But the harsh tone of her voice finally registers, and she somehow manages to rein herself in. "No, thank you."

Dumbledore appraises her with calm, unreadable eyes. "Very well. Come morning, I will be sure to check in on you both." His gaze shifts to Adrian. "Would you be so kind as to escort Miss Granger back to her common room?"

It makes her feel childish — out of control. Needing a chaperone. But she can think of nothing further to say. Nothing that would change their minds.

And Malfoy's side of the bond has faded to white noise.

Professor McGonagall gives her arm a squeeze as she passes, following Adrian out of the Dungeons corridor. She glances back once at Dumbledore over her shoulder, perhaps to catch a glimpse of his true thoughts.

His face remains a mask.

And the flask feels heavy and useless in her hands.

"You're too obvious," says Adrian when they reach the top of the Dungeon stairs. He doesn't look at her, gaze shifting around warily as they pass the Great Hall. "Your emotions, your anger. You wear it all on your sleeve, and if you really want to keep this whole mess private, you'll have to learn to stop doing that."

"I don't need another lecture from you."

"Then stop asking for them." He slows at the foot of the Grand Staircase — performs a somewhat aggressive quarter-turn and brandishes an arm, forcing her to walk ahead of him. "If you think it's bad now, you wait until rumors start spreading. Half-breeds and their ilk don't fare well in Wizarding society."

"And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she mutters under her breath. The tense silence that follows suggests he heard it, and she'd probably feel guilty if her stomach weren't still churning.

For half the walk to Gryffindor, she wonders how she'll ever manage to sleep. And despite how much she wants to, she refuses to ask Adrian any questions. Doesn't think she actually wants to know how exactly Malfoy's chained up. How he was acting just before Adrian left. What the look in his eyes was.

For half the walk to Gryffindor, she does what she can to resign herself to the inevitable.

But somewhere around the fourth floor, their dormant bond suddenly crackles back to life — and out of nowhere, she hears him loud and clear.

Help me.

The toe of her shoe catches on the next step, and she has to steady herself with the railing. Adrian comes into view at her side, brow quirked.

Granger...

It's a strangled whisper. Like nothing she's ever heard from him before. Desperate and terrified.

Granger, help me. Help me. Please.

Her grip tightens on the railing, lungs closing around her next breath.

"What?" Adrian demands. "What is it?"

For about ten seconds, she considers telling him, gaze searching his. But she finds far too much uncertainty there, and with one glance at the flask clutched in her left hand, her mind is made up.

She releases the railing and scrambles to free her wand from the pocket of her skirt, unwavering as she aims the tip between his eyes.

"Stupefy," she breathes, and Adrian crumples on the stairs like a marionette with its strings cut.

Help me. Fuck, please help me.

Malfoy's voice is quiet, but from the way it makes her stomach clench, he may as well be screaming.

Without another thought, she steps over Adrian's body and races for the One-Eyed Witch Passage.

I'm coming.

It hurts. Please, it hurts. Please.

These words reach her just as she's climbing out of Honeydukes' cellar, and she trips over her feet running through the darkened shop, forgetting the entire concept of magic for a moment. She cuts her sleeve breaking the glass pane on the door to unlock it from the outside.

Hogsmeade is deserted at this hour — nearly nine, now. The moon shines bright and pitiless over the rooftops as she carves a path through the thin layer of snow towards the Shrieking Shack.

Nearly there, I promise.

She can't feel him at all, now — only hears his pleading, the ache in her chest burrowing deeper with each word. She's not too late. Not if he's still communicating. And she clings desperately to the vision of herself tipping every last drop of Wolfsbane down his throat.

The dark shadow of the Shrieking Shack comes into view as she crests the hill — a cathedral to her frantic eyes. One of her curls catches on a loose screw as she ducks between the rails of the property's weathered gate, but the pain barely registers. It's a good a sign as any that she doesn't hear anything. No agonized screams. No cry of the wolf. Only—

Please. Please, please. Help me.

I'm here.

The door isn't locked this time, and it only takes her a matter of seconds to cross the ground floor to the stairs, wind whistling through the gaps in the walls. "Malfoy!" she calls out, taking the rickety steps two at a time. "Malfoy, I'm here!"

No answer — but she remembers which door it is in that crooked hallway off the landing. Sucking in a deep breath, she thrusts it open and tells herself she's prepared for anything.

He's there. Down on his knees in the center of the room, chains tethering him to opposite walls — still human.

"Malfoy..." she breathes, more a sigh of relief than anything, and his head lifts to look at her, sweat-soaked hair dangling in his face.

"Granger."

The moon hasn't made its way through the second story windows just yet, but his eyes are affected. That pale blue-grey is gone, filled in by darkness that crawls out from the pupils, spiderwebbed over the whites.

"Help me."

She scrambles forward and drops to her knees, trembling hands struggling to unscrew the lid of the flask. "Open your mouth. Open," she coaxes, resting one hand on his jaw as he tilts his head back. "There you go. Yes. Good." Not a drop is allowed to go to waste, and she shakes the empty flask twice over his parted lips before she's satisfied he's gotten it all.

He doesn't even grimace at the taste. Barely reacts beyond a sigh, eyes falling shut, and for a long while he stays like that. Face tipped towards the ceiling, chest heaving as he pants.

"You'll be alright. Just breathe. Breathe," she whispers, catching her own breath for the first time since arriving.

"Thank you," he murmurs at long last, when everything has slowed and the room's descended into silence. His voice is low and calm — nothing like that frenzied rasp she heard in her head — and she huffs out another relieved sigh as she watches him crack his neck back and forth. Gradually, he lowers his chin, eyes still closed. "Thank you," he says again, only this time he adds, "sweet girl," in a voice that's suddenly like velvet. "I knew you'd come."

She goes very still, brows drawing together — and Malfoy opens his eyes.

They aren't dark now. A line of glowing white splits each of them in two. Thin diamonds like the pupils of a cat.

Her throat closes up at the sight, body tensing. She's seen his eyes change when the bisect took control in the past, but they've never looked like this. And he's never called her that before.

"Stranger...?" she offers in a quiet, cautious voice. Perhaps he's different in the wake of the full moon.

Malfoy's face contorts at the word, eyes squinting and mouth curving up on one side. "Strange..." he echoes, as though he's never heard the word before. "This is certainly strange."

And then he laughs.

Hermione jerks back, falling off her knees only to scramble to her feet.

"No, no..." he coos, tilting his head to the side as he watches her. "Don't go."

More and more, she's realizing she doesn't recognize his voice at all.

"Malfoy," she snaps, hoping to force him out of it. "Stop. Stop — tell me what's happening."

He just gazes up at her from the floor, smiling oddly. Eyes empty. "I'm so glad you came."

"Malfoy."

"Imagine if you hadn't..."

Her heart starts to pound. She takes another step back, attempting to reach him inside her head. Malfoy. Malfoy, listen to me—

"How sad I would be..." he continues, hands sliding from where they rested on his thighs to form fists on the floor at either side. The chains rattle as he leans forward. "I wonder, sweet girl — what does your muscle taste like?"

With one sharp breath, she turns on her heel and lunges for the door, but just as quickly it slams and locks itself in her face. Wandless magic.

"Don't go. No, please don't go. I don't want you to miss it."

She claws for her wand, stammering out the unlocking spell over and over again. But each time the door re-locks itself, and her hand starts to sweat yanking at the knob.

"Come, now...look at me," that thing in Malfoy's body is saying. "You don't want to miss it."

And just as a brilliant streak of moonlight slices through the room from one of the windows, she hears the chains behind her start to groan, and all at once there's a great, sickening crack.

Whirling around, she presses back against the door, one hand still clutching the knob. Malfoy is hunched over, spine bent at an unnatural angle, panting viciously. His palms are flattened against the floor, veins protruding, and as the moonlight spills over him, his fingers curl inward. The wood of the floorboards peels away under his fingernails. And when she blinks, they're no longer nails — but claws. Curved, sable, knife-like claws, steadily growing longer. They cleave through the wood like butter.

Another chilling crack echoes across the room, and Malfoy's body jerks again, chains groaning as his shirtsleeves start to tear. The seams split, gaping holes forming at the shoulders and biceps as his flesh fights its way through. Flesh that's rapidly darkening.

She's paralyzed. Every muscle freezes as she watches what can't be stopped.

In all, it only takes a matter of seconds.

Malfoy screams — just once. A choking, garbled scream that gets swallowed whole halfway through, and then — quite suddenly — she's looking at a monster.

Clothes torn away, body deformed, it slowly raises its head to look at her. A long, silver-furred snout peels back brutally over fangs that drip saliva onto the floor. Fangs as long as her fingers, she swears. And with those glowing eyes locked on hers, it raises off its knees to its full height.

Her breath abandons her.

Lupin's wolf was the size of a man. Thin and, in a way, almost frail.

This wolf drowns her in its shadow, muscles of its legs coiling as it straightens off its haunches to stand on its hind legs. Its arms are twice as long as they should be, dangling down at its sides, and even standing, those claws still brush the floor.

Steaming clouds billow from that snout as it breathes, staring at her for a long moment in silence.

And suddenly that voice — the one that belongs to Malfoy, and yet not at all — floods through her head.

I can smell your blood, little thing.

The hair stands up on the back of her neck, and the sight of the monster's long, dripping tongue rolling across its teeth is all it takes to inject life back into her limbs.

She spins to face the door again and thrusts her wand towards the lock. "Bombarda!"

The door rips from its hinges, falling flat onto the ground, and all she hears as she dashes through the opening is laughter in her head.

Her breath comes in short, uneven hitches, ankle twisting on the way down the stairs. She stumbles and falls near the lowest step, shoving herself up onto all fours and back to her feet before she even knows she tripped. But just as she reaches the front door, she hears them both at once.

The beast, its tone a lilting whisper — I'm coming for you.

And the chains ripping off their bolts on the walls.

A panicked cry lodges in the back of her throat, and she throws herself through the door out into the cold. The hill leading down from the Shrieking Shack is unforgiving beneath her feet, snow making her slip. She scrapes her arm on the fence crawling out from under it, splinters burying themselves into her skin.

She'll run through Hogsmeade. Keep to the main road and get back to the Castle. She'll run until her lungs burst.

She'll find a way to—

Out from the shadows of the first alleyway in her path, it crawls. Somehow ahead of her. Impossibly. Undeniably. And the way it walks — a prowling, unsettling dance, shifting off and onto its haunches again and again — makes her stomach roll.

Oh, little one...I am so much faster than you.

It's blocking her way, five meters between them at best — leaving only the path to her right. The Forbidden Forest.

Do you want to run from me? the monster asks, razor blade claws drawing little spirals in the snow as it assesses her. Oh, please. Please, say you'll run from me. Hunted prey tastes sweeter.

Her traitorous limbs freeze up again, rooting her to the spot. Forcing her to stare back at the beast as it cocks its head from side to side. A wolf can't grin, but this one does.

"If..." she breathes, her voice a pathetic whimper. "If you — if you hurt me, it'll...hurt you too..."

That tongue traces its fangs again, eyes tightening like they're zeroing in on a specific target. Her stomach. Her jugular. She can't be sure.

I dearly hope so. In fact, I long for it.

A wash of cold spills through her, and the beast careens forward suddenly — a false lunge. Toying with her. When she gasps, that grin widens.

Now run.

Her feet twitch in the snow.

RUN!

The shout blares through her head in the same moment the beast rears its jaw and howls into the wind, and she stumbles backward. Twists to the right with a cut scream, taking off into the waiting woods.

This is what it wants. A surefire trap in the form of sprawling trees and no sense of direction.

She has no choice.

She darts into the shadows of the treeline with no idea whether she'll ever come back out. And she hears the staggered, heavy footfalls of the beast immediately start closing in behind her.

The moonlight flashes between the trunks and bushes like a strobe, almost as fast as her heartbeat, and all she can think as she charges into the brambles is that there's no one to save her this time. No future version of herself there to burst out from the darkness and howl up at the moon.

This isn't the mindless monster she planned for.

This one knows what it's hunting.

Run, run, run...it hisses, laughing as her foot catches on a root and she falls face first to the wet earth.

She scrunches her fists into the mixed snow and mud, forcing herself back to her feet even as her lungs start to burn, pulse shallow and painful at the front of her chest. The forest is a labyrinth.

There are many places to hide.

Not when you smell so sweet, warns the beast. Oh, so sweet. Not when I hear the blood gushing through your veins. But please...do try.

For the first several hours, she wonders if this is perhaps the most vivid nightmare she's ever had. Wonders if, at any moment, she might gasp and sit up in bed, drenched in sweat — penance for overthinking.

If it could happen soon, she'd never ask another favor of the universe. Never again.

But a few hours more, and she's sure she's not dreaming. The blood seeping down the backs of her heels from the blisters is her own. The constrictions of her stomach as she dry heaves — unable to stop to pull her hair back — aren't imaginary.

The wolf hunts her meticulously, spending precious hours — precious stamina — refusing to catch her. It stalks her into thorn bushes and through spider-ridden caves, always close enough to be heard. Close enough, sometimes, to be seen — the glint of an eye. The edge of a claw. It scrapes marks into the tree bark and trains her never to trust left from right or up from down. Teaches her its game, all the while never failing to tell her how much it's enjoying it.

This is my prize, little thing. My bounty. I've waited so long.

Harry once described the words of the Basilisk to her. Parseltongue threats she could never hear with her own ears.

She imagines they sounded a great deal like this.

Let me peel the tendons from your bones, pretty girl. I'll be good. I'll be gentle.

I want to see your insides.

Don't you know it's dangerous to walk the woods alone?

Her lungs beg her to let them burst, the metallic taste of blood a constant reminder in the back of her throat. She's skinned her knees more times than she can count, muscles in her legs worn away to nothing.

Oh, don't give up. No — not yet. You won't scream the way I want you to.

Tears track clean streaks into the mud spattered all over her face. The monster tells her it can't wait to taste them.

Countless times, she tries to scream for help. Her throat is torn raw. But these woods are not the friendly sort, filled with creatures that would rather watch than intervene.

And Malfoy cannot hear her.

Please — please, wake up. Please, I'm begging you. Come back. Come back. Come back.

It's amidst one of these pleas, hours deep into the endless night, that the wolf decides it's hungry enough.

Sad, little thing...tell me you don't really believe he's going to help you, it purrs, no doubt watching as she staggers into a clearing she's passed a thousand times before.

She's found every rock and every tree, but never the edge of the forest.

This is meant to be. I was sired to hunt you, just as you were sired to be consumed.

She stumbles down a hill she knows leads to a creek. She's spit blood into it before.

Would you like to know what you taste like?

Perhaps she can drown herself.

I'll tell you as soon as I find out.

The moment she's been waiting for all night.

Out of the darkness, it lunges for her, roar like a man's dying scream, and she thinks she breaks her ankle twisting around to face it. Crying out, she loses her footing and falls into the shallow, icy water, bruising her spine on impact. Her wand ejects mindless spells. Light and sparks and anything she can think to ward it off with, but the wolf takes one swipe at her with those vicious claws and she can suddenly see the bone of her forearm.

Her wand is lost, and her vision tints red in the haze of pain.

Or perhaps that's just the blood.

Flesh dangling down around her wrist, she rolls onto her stomach and tries to crawl, but the wolf's claws find the backs of her thighs, carving stripes into her flesh. Her scream is soundless, no voice left to give way to it.

Don't go. Don't go. I've only just found you.

Its voice is so sweet, even as the grip of one of those massive, half-human hands tightens enough to snap her femur.

That she does hear. A crack as loud as a Muggle shotgun. Her scream is just an afterthought.

If she blacks out, she dies. She knows that.

So she crawls, dragging her limp, crooked limbs away from its teasing grip as it stalks after her. It'll go for the neck, she thinks — when it truly wants this over with.

M-Malfoy...please...

More laughter, slippery and poisonous inside her mind.

Please...

All at once, the wolf tangles its claws into her mud-crusted curls, using them as leverage to flip her onto her back. The nerves in her leg cry out like knives are being driven through them. Blood spurts from the open arteries in her arm.

The wolf gazes down on her, lips pulled back over its fangs, leering.

This is it, she thinks, staring back. No strength to scream. Not even to fight. She looks up into those lifeless, glowing eyes and wonders what she did to earn a death like this.

I'm sorry, Malfoy.

The thought fills her mind instinctively. The last thing she can think to say to him.

I'm sorry. I — I tried. I did.

And that's when those wicked eyes flicker and blink — the first she's seen them blink all night. It's the only hesitation she's witnessed from this creature that hasn't seemed intentional.

Granger?

It isn't real. She knows she isn't hearing Malfoy's voice.

But the illusion spurs the last dregs of her will, driving her fingers to close around a rock. And she spends the last of her strength forcing that arm to swing towards the beast, striking hard across the jaw.

An animal whimper. A roar.

She flips onto her stomach and uses the screaming pain to find her feet, broken leg dragging behind her as she limps through the water. Twice, she falls, hearing the beast closing in. Thorns and sharp rocks split open her palms. Her body begs to fail.

The wolf howls, and she knows the sound of its feet leaving the earth. Of the lunge that will surely take her life.

She closes her eyes, bracing for —

Warmth.

Warmth and something bright. Something that sears through the bruised flesh of her eyelids.

Warmth and silence.

When she opens her eyes again, she's certain she's dead. Nothing else could explain the sunrise.

But the trembling hand she raises to shield herself from it is soaked in blood. Carved and grotesque.

Staggering to balance on her one good leg, she turns, unable to fathom the sound of morning birds, flying from branch to branch just above — the delicate, early light grazing the leaves.

She turns to face the beast and finds none.

Only a boy with horror in his eyes.

TW: gore, disturbing imagery