Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind,

And tremulously gentle her small hand

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind

A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland

And slight, so very slight that to the mind

'Twas but a doubt

~ Don Juan, I. 71

Dyre awoke to pain. This was not unusual. What was unusual was the body in which he had chosen to suffer this agony. He could feel his antlers tangling in the underbrush, his hind legs thick with lead. His diaphragm heaved with his breathing, which was wet and throaty. His tongue lolled from his mouth, tasting the dirt on the leaves beneath him. His front leg was marred beyond use.

He laid his head back. It felt much too heavy. Heat swarmed his chest and neck while cold invaded him limbs. Unable to control himself, he let out a long baritone mewl, an animalistic call for help. Even before he finished, he surrendered to the fact that there was nobody to find him here, no one that would sit beside him in this awful pain, cool his sweaty, blood-soaked flank and wrap his mangled leg in bandages.

Yrsa's gentle hands came to mind. He remembered how she would puff the soft fur on his chest and smooth the burs from his pelt. He remembered her small body astride his back, a firm grip on his antlers as together they pranced about the inner sanctum, heedless to the acolytes trying to tame their wild play.

He remembered the Maiden running her fingers over the coolness of his ears, scratching the unreachable place at his throat.

Blood dripped from his nose, mixing with the light sprinkle of rain that filtered through the canopy. The ache in his chest would not subside. It mixed with the coldness and his fever, making his head unbearably muddy.

Still, he never believed he would die here. For all the things he had survived, the destiny he felt pressing in on him at all sides – fate hanging like a noose over his head – he knew this was neither the time nor place for him to rest.

It was a curious thing to see how the Norns would save him. It was strange – the absolute belief that no one would save him and the knowledge that he could not die. Not yet. It left only himself, too sick and injured to move.

He wondered what Draco would think of his lie.

It was only a passing thought, slipping through the grey dense mass of his muddled head. It seemed to echo, growing more silent as he slowly succumbed to his fever, until it ended in a sibilant hiss not unlike the whisper of leaves clinging to a dying limb. Eventually, even that final thought drifted into darkness.

o.O.o

"If you wish to survive, Harry Potter," a voice said, low and comfortable in the middle of the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. "Then you must wake."

Dyre was flirting between worlds. He could only vaguely recognize a voice besieging him through the thick mist of sweaty murk. He heard the words. He knew someone, something, was talking, words were forming, a mouth was moving, but he couldn't understand.

"Change back, Harry Potter."

A name. That name. It meant something, something that wasn't him. But was. The voice wouldn't let him rest.

"You must change back," it said more adamantly, moving to raise his throbbing head.

A hand was at his neck. His skull was too heavy, too fill of black shit, and it flopped back from the grip, his antlers weighing him down. His throat was swollen and burned. He wanted water. He wanted water. He was thirsty.

He felt the change taking place from a long way away. It was slow, slower even than when he stood before the dragon with time against him. The strangling weight of his antlers reduced to uneven stubs. The fingers on his right hand spread out into five. His body shortened, the neck sliding back into a straight spine. Only parts of his attire survived the transformation, but it was enough so that the egg, the golden egg that was the crux of all this grief, dropped onto the forest floor. Most of the fabric remained part of his flesh, coated in short coarse hair. At last, his face became human, muzzle rescinding to blue lips, sweaty and sallow.

His malformation was indecent. Uneven muscles whined, the organs only shifting partway so that they took up too much space, wrestling for room inside him. His human skin, sensitive from the change, was rubbed raw by the mix of cloth and fur, fusing strangely.

He threw up. The thin pink-pastel ooze was dotted with vegetables but otherwise insubstantial. Whenever he breathed, he felt unequally sized, liquid-filled lungs pushing against small human ribs. There wasn't enough space in him. Breath was painful, cutting off before he could get his fill. His heart was being pressed against. He felt like he was choking, being pulled out, and stabbed at the same time. Every movement pulled at muscles that were not properly interlaced. He wheezed. His chest rattled.

He kicked out with his hind legs, still deer, struggling between stretching out and bunching up into an inflexible ball. He screamed as he was lifted. It was gurgled and maimed by his ruined throat and lungs. He was pressed to a warm chest, hairy and bare. An arm cradled his hind legs as it bent once more to retrieve his egg.

Dyre wanted to tell it to just leave it. It was worthless. It was too bright for the darkness around them.

"Hold on, Harry Potter."

For a moment, Dyre felt like a child again, having fallen out of the tree in the courtyard. He was clinging to the Maiden's neck, sobbing into her silver hair.

"Hold on, my Dyre. Everything will be ok," she had said in that sweet voice, a voice like sunlight.

"Ok," Dyre said to the blurry head above him (though it came out as Ohg-grie), a faint trusting smile making its way through the pain.

His human hand crawled upward, curling around the creature's neck. He let the heartbeat, like a soft thrum though a thick drum, lull him into a world that had long been torn from him. This waking dream was damned, but though Dyre knew that, the allure of that time, that sweet memory, was too much to bear.

Dyre Durmstrang moved through the forest. Trees whipped by him like the wind.

o.O.o

Lupin headed the hunt, his inhuman senses lending only little support in the wet wood. His speed carried him before the others but he forced to pace himself, terrified that the weak scent of Harry's blood was going to fade in the rain.

He could hear the others behind him, hurtling fallen limbs and uprooting bushes. Dumbledore in his old age had no trouble keeping pace with his comrades, his wrinkled face keen with determination. Like an oak, his age lent him only strength.

Victor was having the most trouble. His lame leg struggled to match them, but the bullheaded resolve on his broken face demanded no pity. Sweat dripped from him, and his mouth was twisted in pain and effort, his hand clenching the straining muscles in his thigh. Still, he ran with them, his wand arching out with every step to carry the weight of his twisted limb.

Soon, Sirius transformed to Padfoot, taking place beside him. His black body was slick with the darkness of the forest. The blue eyes of the hellhound stalked the wood, paws landing almost without sound over the ground. The cries of the other searchers had long died away.

"Wait," Lupin called.

Padfoot sped ahead, coming to circle around beside him while the others came to a stop behind him. They were panting, sides heaving, clothes and hair clinging to them. Even the impressive Malfoy men were outdone with exertion.

"What is it?" Lily asked, holding a stitch in her side, her green eyes squeezed shut.

"Something is coming," Lupin said.

The creature was sprinting through the forest with little regard for secrecy on a headlong course for their party. Dumbledore stood before them, his long robes moving the leaves of the floor. He was less flushed than the others, the quiver in his limbs less visible. His wand was in his hand, though relaxed.

Soon, a long figure shot through the trees. As it spotted them, it pulled up. His equine body cantered, thick hooves clopping. They immediately recognized him.

"Firenze," Dumbledore said, both as a greeting and in relief.

Their eyes were soon drawn to the mutilated figure with his arm slung over his neck. Harry was cradled in the centaur's arms. His breath came out in wet, painful gasps. One short stub and a longer two-branched antler grew from his black hair and his fractured arm was still a forelimb. His chest was only half covered by his usual grey uniform. Part adhered to his flesh, mixing into a black pelt. His legs were completely deer. The golden egg rested in his lap.

"Harry!" several people cried out, moving to swarm him.

Firenze backed away, his tail flicking irritably. Harry swallowed a scream, his face a mess of ugly sickness and pain.

"He needs medical attention immediately," Firenze said, his arm still fitted around the boy.

"The castle," Lily said.

Firenze nodded and took off, his long legs making great leaps over the dense floor.

"I'll follow," Lupin said and was gone as well, Padfoot joining as well.

"I shall inform the others to stop the search," Dumbledore said, his wand moving in the intricate pattern of a spell. "I suggest the rest of you attend Madam Pomfrey."

Lily and James had already left, tailing the other two marauders. Draco, Severus, Lucius, and Victor nodded. Severus, who was most acquainted with the forest from his herb gathering, led them out. Victor was forced to rest against the trees several times before Draco convinced him to borrow his shoulder. It was with a much more sedate pace that they gained the castle, though not for lack of resolution.

Once they broached the edge of the forest, Severus rushed ahead to lend his potion expertise. After a quick conversation with his son, Lucius walked ahead as well. The two boys struggled to gain the steps of the magnificent castle.

"You should go ahead," Victor said, his voice tight.

His arm was slung over Draco's shoulder. The blonde had a grip both on the taller boy's waist and wrist. He tugged him along, relying on Victor's uninjured leg to move them along.

"Don't… be stupid," the boy panted. "I'd only get in the way… anyway."

He readjusted his grip, hunching over to take the next step. His legs screamed at him. His chest ached with running. However, though Draco was hardly used to this manner of grueling physical stress, he was more concerned with Dyre's injuries.

He had never seen such a botched transformation. He had seen satyrs before. Crafty Pans with their flutes luring women to the glens, they were quick to take your dignity and disappear between the glades. Dyre had been nothing like them. His muscles did not flow smoothly, bulging painfully in places. His skin had been a mass of bruises where the blood could not circulate properly. His chest had been stretched, a great yellowing mass with contusions and ruptures. It had not been pretty.

And his arm… His hoof had been set off at an odd angle, an impossible angle. Half the forearm had been bent towards his chest. The bone had shown white and crooked, rising like an ivory post through the rest of his arm. It was grotesque.

They had finally reached the infirmary and were alarmed to see that most of the people who had run ahead were standing outside the doors, biting nails and pacing. Draco rested Victor against a wall, moving to talk to his father. Firenze was still in the hall, his hooves shedding mud onto the stone as he spoke with Lupin. Sirius was still in his dog form, lying on his paws as he stared morosely at the door.

"What's going on?" Draco asked.

"His condition is serious," his father said brusquely. "They think he might have contracted pneumonia on top of his external injuries and mal-transformation."

"But they can fix him, can't they?" Draco asked anxiously.

Lucius looked pained, his gaze wandering to where Lily and James had collapsed in each other's arms.

"I don't know, Draco."

Draco looked down at the floor. Dyre had to make it. He just had to.

The doors opened. Everyone stood to attention, not speaking a word. There was blood on her white apron. It coated it. There was too much. There was much too much. Pomfrey wiped her hands on a towel as she spoke.

"He's in critical condition," she said gravely. "I've never dealt with this type of mutation before. I can't – I don't know how to help him. However," she said before anyone could speak. "Narcissa might be able to help. She was studying animagi transformations for her thesis before she was interrupted. I don't know anybody else who could get here in time."

"How long does he have?" James asked as Lucius literally ran to retrieve his wife.

"His heart was crushed under the pressure," Pomfrey said. "Severus is compensating for the blood flow as best he can but he only has a few hours before his body gives out or the pneumonia takes him."

The door was suddenly wrenched back, revealing a blood soaked Professor Snape. His eyes were wide and frantic.

"Poppy!" he shouted. "It's growing back!"

She blinked then ran inside. Forgoing closing the door, the others crowded in behind her. Dyre was lain out on the bed. Blood covered his mutilated body in swathes and his chest was open, revealing all of the organs clambering for room. As they watched, his heart, which was little more than a crushed clump of meat, was reforming itself. The veins were realigning themselves. The blood was crawling back into his chest. Poppy and Severus started as even the splatters on their clothes were drawn from them. Dyre's eyes flickered.

"What is happening?" James whispered, his eyes drawn to his son's terrible chest.

The heart was finished. It hung between the over inflated lungs. It gave a single beat, and Dyre breathed again. They watched as the lungs pressed against the heart again, restricting its flow, returning to awful painful beating that had caused it to be crushed in the first place. Dyre was breathing laboriously, mouth open to gasp and eyes closed in pain. His fingers clenched and released, unsatisfied. The deer legs kicked. His body shuddered. The awful rattling of death's last throes crawled from his throat.

Lily leaned over and threw up. The sick hit the floor with a wet slap. The acrid smell met Draco's nose, and he too ran to empty his stomach in a bedpan.

The doors opened again, and Draco's mother swept inside. Her nightwear was crumpled from her sleeping, her hair was meshed in a collapsed braid, but there was spirit in her blue eyes. She regarded Dyre with quick assessment. She paled, a look of terror pervading her face before she drove all emotion out. She rolled up her sleeves.

"Anyone who isn't going to lend magic or fetch bandages and water is going to leave now."

No one left.

Narcissa launched into a tirade. Her voice was sharp as she ordered them about. She demanded Severus and Poppy by her side, motioning them to press their magic on Dyre's inflated lungs. They knew enough of anatomy to form them back into human, moving as instructed to his pancreas and liver. Dyre coughed blood, squirming with the indignant sensation of their hands on his organs. Draco wiped the blood away.

Narcissa had to do most of the transfiguration herself. Lucius lent her magic until his own stores were depleted. He was replaced by James, then Sirius. Draco replaced Severus' reserves and Lily began to channel magic into Poppy. It was grueling and several times the organs collapsed, prompting a round of cursing and fresh regeneration. Slowly, Dyre's movements began to calm. His breathing was still stricken with illness, but his heart was beating unhindered and his limbs and muscles had been returned to normal.

His left arm caused quite a bit of problem. Eventually, they had to settle for shifting it broken and healing it afterwards. Dyre screamed as Sirius, James, Victor, and Draco held him down and Lupin and Lucius struggled to keep his arm still. By the time they were done, they were all covered in blood and sweat.

Dyre's fever had not abated. If anything, it had gotten worse, but his insides were fixed. Lily lifted her son's head, slipping water passed his lips. Narcissa abandoned Dyre to Poppy, collapsing in her husband's lap, slapping blood on his expensive robes. Lucius ran his hand softly over her tangled hair, trying to get her to sleep.

Dumbledore had stopped by at several points to stand watch beside Victor, who remained stoic throughout the whole ordeal, his eyes never shifting. Draco stood opposite Lily and James, watching Dyre's shallow breathing. Severus brushed beside him, moving to pour three potions into his open mouth.

The tension leaked from his body, and he collapsed on the sheets. It was such a relief to see him without pain that Draco nearly cried. He wanted nothing more than to lie out on the stone floor with the discarded bandages and water spills, stretch his limbs over the cool stone and sleep.

No one spoke.

No one had noticed that day had descended upon them. Sunlight rained through the windows, casting shadows to their ugly bruised faces. The infirmary had been closed to all, students redirected by Dumbledore. Slowly, Pomfrey began to clean her station. She scuttled back and forth between her office and the bed, the only sound the soft clopping of her shoes. Eventually, Dumbledore moved to assist her. Everyone else was still, both shocked and exhausted by the level of chaos and inhumane suffering that had just taken place.

When an owl landed on the windowsill in broad daylight, no one reacted to it. Not even when the small burrowing owl hopped onto Dyre's bed and began nipping at his dark hair. The owl roosted down at his shoulder, burrowing between his neck and the pillow.

They were too exhausted to do anything more than watch his peaceful breathing, thankful beyond measure for such a simple thing as his chest rising and falling in easy motion.