Into the Forest

Author's Note: One more double chapter drop! See you guys next week, thanks for all the love and comments :)

I misjudge how high I am off the ground. When my feet hit, it's awkward and I stumble, catching my foot the wrong way on a gnarled root clawing out of the dirt. My ankle gives out, pitching me to the ground.

I catch myself before my face slams against the forest floor, but it's too late for my ankle. I drag myself behind the nearest tree so I'm hidden from view and bend to examine the injury.

I'm no medic, but the blue-black color already staining my skin can't be good. I poke at the affected area and wince as pain sears up my leg. Even so, I decide to try my weight on it. I can hardly wait here for Rosier to find me and finish me off.

Using the tree trunk for support, I drag myself up, keeping my weight off my injured foot for as long as possible. When I'm fully upright, I gingerly shift to see how much weight it will take. It hurts, but finally I'm standing without the aid of the tree. I don't think it's broken, but tears trickle down my cheeks from the exertion, and I suspect it's at least badly twisted.

I can't believe this is happening! After everything, being cornered by the Slytherins and managing to escape, a stupid, poorly executed leap and equally stupid ankle might be my downfall.

But clattering on the other side of the wall stirs my resolve. Lily Evans is not going down for a sprained ankle. Swallowing the pain, I hobble forward, away from Hogsmeade and deeper into the undergrowth.

The thick canopy of trees closes over my head, blocking out the full moon and stars and any hint of light. I falter, then stop, worried about slamming into a tree trunk or, worse, some kind of animal. The distant sounds of the Slytherins' shouting muffles through the gloom, like I'm hearing them from underwater.

"She went into the Forest!"

One of them curses.

"After her!" roars another, and I recognize Rosier. "We can't let her get away again."

A moment later the stillness of the Forest breaks with crashing footsteps. They've all got their wands lit, and I don't blame them. It's really very dark in here. In fact, I quite appreciate the light source. Now I can see right where they are.

The problem is, I'd originally intended to let them see me and lose them once we got deeper into the trees. Now, though, such a chase is out of the question. I can barely walk, let alone run. But I don't want them to give up and go back into town. I need a distraction.

I look around but all I see are trees, rocks, and the underbrush. I freeze when I note a large shape rising out of a dense cluster of ferns but relax when I realize it's just a twisted stump. And mistaking it for something living gives me an idea.

If it hadn't been for all my lessons with James this year, I'd never dare try it, because I'd know it would never work. But thanks to him, my Transfiguration skills have massively improved. I need something roughly human sized that, in the gloom, might pass for an eighteen-year-old girl trying to sneak away on all fours through the thick undergrowth. Concentrating fiercely, not daring to utter the spell aloud, I direct my wand toward the stump and flick.

The stump transforms effortlessly into a little doe.

"Yes," I hiss, and I lunge for her.

Startled, she bolts away, the sound of her bounds against the forest floor as loud as the explosions back in the alleyway.

"There she is!" Regulus hollers, and all four of them take off after the deer. I grin and strike out in the exact opposite direction.

Several minutes later, though, and I'm feeling anything but pleased. I may have successfully evaded Rosier, but I am hopelessly, perilously lost.

The crashing sounds of the Slytherins have long since disappeared, which is reassuring, but also makes me aware of how loud I'm being. My throbbing ankle makes it difficult to walk, let alone be stealthy about it, and I wince as every hobbling step rustles leaves and crunches branches. The toe of my injured foot knocks against a rock, and I cry out involuntarily.

I clap a hand over my mouth. Never mind the Slytherins; this deep in the Forest, who knows what kind of danger I could attract if I'm not careful. Filch has always lectured the younger students about the many, many ways we could meet gruesome ends if we broke the rules and wandered, and the Marauders have served more than one detention patrolling the Forest with Hagrid. I know I've heard Sirius swear there's a colony of acromantulas hiding in here somewhere. Whether or not he was being truthful, I certainly don't want to find out, but I have no way to know how to get out of here.

A howl sounds in the distance, and I freeze.

I may no longer be worried about the Slytherins but I'm still in huge trouble.

And I'm not the only one in trouble. I'm beside myself with worry that I can't figure out where James and Severus ended up, and knowing Rosier and the rest of them are on the warpath does not make me feel any better. I have half a mind to retrace my steps back into Hogsmeade to find them. At least if I did that I'd have a way back to the castle. Provided the Slytherins wouldn't catch me again. Provided using the tunnel wouldn't re-trigger the alarm...

I'm still frozen in place, trying to decide my best plan of action when that howl sounds again. Much closer. Much much closer.

Heart in my mouth, I turn my head slowly to the left and see a great, ragged wolf stalk out from between the trees. But it's much too large, the snout too long, the incisors polished into impossibly long, sharp crescents, and I know. Not a wolf.

Werewolf.

I can't move. Even if I could, what would I do? My ankle's basically broken, I'm lost, potentially miles from safety, and none of that even matters because the creature in front of me would catch me in seconds even under the best of circumstances. Even my wand feels like a useless stick clutched in my sweaty palm. Werewolves are like dragons or giants: so full of magic and raw power it takes several wizards working together to bring one down. What's my one measly effort going to do against a werewolf?

The wolf growls deep in its chest and I can't help it; I stumble backwards several steps, transfixed in terror by its gleaming malicious amber eyes, nearly level with my own. My injured foot catches again on an uneven bit of ground and I fall. The werewolf surges forward. I squeeze my eyes shut, prepared to feel those teeth rip into my skin, when there's a snarl. Both the werewolf and I snap in the direction of the sound. My heart seizes as another prowling shape pushes its way out of the undergrowth. Another wolf?

But it slips through a patch of moonlight and I see, no, this one is a dog. Better than a werewolf, but not much, because it's almost as massive, black as pitch and baring its teeth. And I'm still injured and lost. Fantastic. I'm about to get torn to shreds by not one vicious beast, but two.

The dog lunges and I cringe away, but to my absolute amazement, it bounds right past me and hurls itself straight at the werewolf.

The air fills with snarling and snapping as the two monsters lock in battle, teeth and claws and eyes glinting murderously even in the dark. I scramble back and then to my feet, desperate to get out of the way. The pain in my ankle barely registers through my blind panic. I have only one thought: Get away.

I crash through a gap between the nearest trees, blood roaring in my ears, grabbing every branch and trunk I pass to support my weight. I don't know where I'm going, just that I can't stay. I'm operating only on instinct, and every fiber of my being propels me away from the danger.

But even adrenaline can only carry me so far and after a couple minutes my ankle gives out and I fall against a wide trunk. I catch myself against the grit of the bark and pant, tears pooling as pain racks up my leg. The bushes rustle and I whimper. I'm in no condition to run anymore. The beasts will have me, and that will be that.

But it's not the werewolf or the dog that emerges. A rat scampers from between the branches, chittering furiously as it winds over the roots of the trees to my feet.

"Get out of here, you stupid rat," I hiss, kicking at it. I can still hear howls and snarls too close for comfort and the last thing I need is for a rat to attract their attention.

But the little creature doesn't listen. If anything, it gets more irritated and scrabbles up my leg, across my sweater, and winds over my shoulders, tugging at my hair, tiny claws pricking through my sweater. I bite back a squeal and push the rat off as quietly as I can. It hits the ground with a thump and annoyed squeak.

The growls break off, followed by the alarming sound of paws beating the ground, coming in my direction. This stupid rat is going to be my undoing after all.

I try to take off again, even just shuffle around the tree so I can hide, but it's no use; every movement stabs pain through my ankle, and though I can move, it's far, far too slow, and I've only made it a few paces when the werewolf bursts back into view, its rage-filled gaze locked on me, the black dog nipping on its heels barely a distraction.

"Lily!"

The shout rips through the night, distracting even the werewolf for a moment. To my horror, James comes running out of the trees in a dead sprint, his hair a tangled, disheveled mess, nearly colliding with me in his hurry.

"Oh thank Merlin, you're okay," he pants, running his hands down my arms, grip tightening on my wrists.

"James! Get out of here! There's a werewolf!" I shriek, shoving him off. I did not follow him into Hogsmeade and battle Slytherins just for him to get attacked now, too.

But he's moving past me, towards the danger, shoving me away. "Don't worry about me," he shouts. "Just follow Peter and get out of here!"

"What?" I cry, but my disbelief gets sucked away when James throws himself at the wolf. "James, NO!"

He doesn't listen, and I wait for the werewolf to sink his claws into his chest but it isn't James that collides with the monster.

It's a stag.

Huge, standing taller than even the massive wolf, it catches the werewolf with its antlers and throws it away from me. The wolf hits the ground and the black dog pounces.

The stag turns back to me, stamping its feet in agitation, gesturing with its head like it's telling me to run before bounding after the werewolf, leaving me standing open-mouthed and gaping at the three large animals tousling in the dirt.

I watch in a daze. Something is eerily familiar about that proud stretch of antlers, and, now that I think of it, the set of the black dog's ears. The rat is back, losing its mind and scurrying all over my feet, biting my shoelaces like it's trying to pull me forward, and my gaze drifts down to the little animal, its long tail...

And suddenly I'm back at the beginning of the year in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Professor Jarvis telling us everyone's patronus takes a unique form, indicative of their personality or something important to them. All my classmates taking their turns casting, the four boys among the few who could do it… and then to Transfiguration class, only weeks ago, Professor McGonagall casually mentioning that one's Animagus form nearly always matched their patronus shape, as hers did.

"Peter?" I whisper to the rat.

The rat rears up, squeaking furiously. I can almost hear the words. 'Obviously! Finally caught on? Now let's go!'

Right. The werewolf.

The werewolf.

I whip around. The stag and the dog have forced it further back into the trees, but it's putting up an incredible fight. My gaze snags on the stag. No, not a stag. James. And then I look at the black dog. I recognize him, too. Sirius. But if that's Sirius, and Peter's the rat...

My eyes snap to the werewolf again, and its amber gaze pierces mine, so sharp it feels almost physical.

The routine sickness, his scarred skin, his wolf patronus…

Remus.

The realization spurs me into action. I stumble backward, and then I turn and take off as fast as my throbbing ankle will allow me. Peter darts ahead, and I follow his long bald tail slithering over the ground, through the undergrowth and around trees. The growls and bellows of the werewolf fight never fully fade, and sometimes the wolf howls right at my back, but I don't pause or look back to check its progress, blindly trusting that James and Sirius will hold it (I cannot bring myself to think of the monster as Remus) off.

We scramble up a rocky ravine, rocks clattering down behind me as I haul myself hand over hand up the slope, sweat pouring down my face and back from exertion and the pain in my ankle. I'm no longer worried about trying to move quietly; I've already got a werewolf on my tail, and I sense the other creatures in the Forest will steer well clear of that kind of threat. I just need to get out.

And finally – finally – we do. Bursting out of the trees and onto the wide, open lawn of the castle grounds is like the first gasp of air after being underwater too long. Moonlight turns everything brilliant silver, the full moon blazing like a beacon in the night sky, and I swear I can see every blade of grass illuminated in perfect clarity.

And the castle. It's right there. I just have to hobble this last stretch and I'll be safe.

A snarl tears through the moonlight and the werewolf breaks free of the tree line right behind me. Sirius has its tail in his teeth and James shoves his whole weight against the creature's side, but the werewolf is unstoppable, barreling straight for me.

There's no way I'll make it to the castle on my ankle. It's swollen so bad from the run through the Forest and the wolf is far too close and too intent on getting to me. Even with James and Sirius fighting back, I can't do it.

Peter bounds across the grass, still trying to encourage me to get to the castle, and I take a few stumbling steps toward him, but when I step across a shadow, I falter. I turn to stare at the large tree marring the otherwise unblemished expanse of grass on the grounds. The Whomping Willow.

In my mind's eye, I see the Marauder's Map with a tunnel drawn in ink snaking off the edge of the parchment in the direction of Hogsmeade, and the Whomping Willow planted right over the entrance.

Perhaps heading for the Shrieking Shack?

Perhaps a tunnel so secure it could contain a werewolf?

I change course so abruptly I almost lose my balance on my bad leg. I yelp and the werewolf surges after me.

Perfect.

Gritting my teeth, I move through the pain and hurtle as best I can towards the tree, hoping the boys understand what I'm trying to do. If I know them, they'll know exactly how to get the tunnel open and force a werewolf inside.

I'm just the bait.

As soon as I'm in range, the Whomping Willow comes to life. Unlike the other idiots at this school who liked to see how close they could get without it whipping them, I'd always had a healthy respect for my general well-being and steered clear of the violent tree. Tonight, though, I dodge the writhing branches and sprint for the trunk. I swear I can feel the werewolf's hot breath on my back.

And then – there. I see it, a dark opening gaping between the roots. Peter changes course and darts ahead, and I hear the werewolf straining against James's and Sirius's efforts. I risk a glance back and see the stag and the dog have the wolf pinned between them, dragging it towards the tunnel opening. Hope surges in my chest. It's going to work.

And then a massive tree bough whips my legs out from under me. I hit the ground hard, my head cracking against a rock, and everything goes black.