Is this a Curse?

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The clouds parted like ghostly fingers, revealing the perfect silver orb hanging in the night sky. Its pale light illuminated the clearing outside the Shrieking Shack, casting long shadows across the uneven ground. The moonbeams struck Professor Lupin's face, and everything changed.

"No," Lupin gasped, his voice strangled as he staggered backward. "I didn't take my potion tonight—run—all of you—now!"

Harry stood frozen, watching in horrified fascination as his favorite professor began to transform. Lupin's body contorted unnaturally, bones cracking like wet branches snapping underfoot. His face elongated, the kindly features stretching into a grotesque muzzle while coarse hair erupted across his skin. 

Wormtail, who has been tied, turns into a rat and starts running away as fast as possible.

Sirius lunged forward, grabbing Lupin's shoulders. "Remus, old friend, fight it—"

But it was too late. Lupin's clothes ripped as his body expanded, and a guttural growl emerged from his throat that chilled Harry's blood.

"RUN!" Sirius shouted frantically, shoving Harry toward Hermione. "GET OUT OF HERE, BOTH OF YOU! GO!"

Ron struggled to stand, his broken leg buckling beneath him. "I can't—I can't run!" His freckles stood out starkly against his pallid face, eyes wide with terror.

"I'll protect him!" Sirius's body twisted and blurred, transforming into the massive black dog Harry had first mistaken for a Grim. The dog positioned itself protectively in front of Ron, hackles raised and teeth bared at the creature Lupin was becoming.

Harry felt Hermione's hand clamp around his wrist. "Harry, come on!" Her voice cracked with panic.

His instincts kicked in. Harry grabbed Hermione's hand and they sprinted toward the Forbidden Forest, the uneven ground threatening to trip them with every step. Behind them, the sounds of snarling and growling echoed through the night air.

Ron's leg is broken. Sirius can't hold off Lupin forever. Harry's thoughts tumbled over each other as his feet pounded against the earth. 

The forest engulfed them, branches clawing at their clothes and faces as they plunged deeper into its depths. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in dappled patches, hardly enough to see by. Harry's glasses were slipping down his sweat-slicked nose, but he didn't dare release Hermione's hand to adjust them.

Hermione stumbled beside him, her breathing ragged. 

"He's coming," she gasped, branches whipping across her cheeks.

Harry pulled her sharply to the left. "This way!"

They splashed through a shallow stream, cold water soaking their shoes and pants. Harry's lungs burned, and Hermione's grip was slipping from his sweat-slicked palm.

"We—need—to hide," Hermione panted, her voice barely audible over their labored breathing and crashing footsteps.

"Where?" Harry hissed, scanning the dark forest frantically.

Another howl, closer this time. The werewolf was gaining on them.

"There!" Hermione pointed to a massive, gnarled oak tree with exposed roots creating a partial hollow at its base. Behind it, several large boulders formed a natural barrier.

They ducked behind the tree, pressing their backs against its rough bark. Harry pulled Hermione down into a crouching position between two enormous roots. The space was barely big enough for both of them, forcing them to huddle close enough that Harry could feel Hermione's heart hammering against his side.

"D-do you think he can smell us?" Hermione whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

Harry nodded grimly. "Probably. But maybe Sirius can distract him—"

A twig snapped nearby, silencing them instantly. Harry felt Hermione's fingers dig into his arm. They held their breath, the only sound the pounding of their hearts.

"Harry," Hermione breathed, so quietly he almost missed it, "if he finds us—"

"He won't," Harry interrupted, though the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

"But if he does," she insisted, her eyes reflecting the scattered moonlight, "we should split up. I'll run east, you go west. One of us needs to get back to Ron and Sirius."

Harry's jaw clenched. "No. We stick together."

"But logically—"

"I'm not leaving you, Hermione." The fierceness in his voice surprised them both. "We'll face him together if we have to."

The forest had gone eerily silent. Even the usual chorus of night insects seemed to have hushed in anticipation of what was to come. Harry strained his ears, listening for any sign of pursuit.

He heard Hermione swallow hard beside him. "Harry," she whispered, "whatever happens... I'm glad I'm with you."

Before he could respond, a low, rumbling growl came from somewhere to their right. They turned slowly, dread pooling in their stomachs, to see a pair of amber eyes gleaming in the darkness between the trees—feral, hungry, and fixed directly on them.

Harry's hand moved toward his wand. "Stay behind me," he murmured, rising slowly to his feet.

The werewolf materialized from the shadows like a nightmare. It stood on its hind legs at nearly seven feet tall, its body a grotesque hybrid of man and wolf. Matted gray-brown fur covered rippling muscles that bulged and shifted with each movement. Its chest was broad, tapering to a narrow waist, but all human resemblance ended there. The creature's arms were too long, ending in massive paws with yellowed claws that could disembowel with a single swipe. Its legs bent backward at the knee, ending in paws that dug deep furrows in the forest floor with each step.

But it was the face that froze Harry's blood. This was no mere wolf. Professor Lupin's features were distorted but horribly recognizable in the elongated snout and amber eyes. Saliva dripped in thick ropes from yellowed fangs as long as Harry's fingers, and its breath came in rumbling growls that vibrated the very air.

"That can't be Professor Lupin," Hermione whispered, horror cracking her voice. "He's always so gentle..."

"Not tonight," Harry replied grimly. "Tonight he's forgotten everything—including us."

The werewolf's head snapped toward their hiding place, ears pricking forward. Its nostrils flared, taking in their scent, and a low, rumbling growl rolled from its throat.

"He's found us," Harry breathed. "When I say go, we split up. I'll draw him off—"

"No!" Hermione hissed, gripping his arm. "That's suicide!"

The werewolf took a step closer, claws clicking against stone. Its growl deepened, vibrating the ground beneath them.

"Then we back away slowly," Harry whispered. "Together. On three. One... two... three..."

They rose in painful slow motion, keeping the massive tree trunk between themselves and the werewolf as they backed away. One step. Two. Three.

Harry's foot came down on a dry branch. The crack echoed like a gunshot.

The werewolf's head jerked up, jaws parting in a snarl that revealed rows of dagger-sharp teeth. In that terrible moment, Harry saw no recognition in those amber eyes—only hunger and savage intent.

"Run!" Harry shouted, shoving Hermione hard as the creature lunged.

Time stretched like taffy. Harry saw Hermione stumble backward, her face a mask of horror. He saw the werewolf's powerful hind legs bunch and release, launching it through the air. He saw moonlight glint off curved claws as they arced toward his chest.

Then pain—white-hot and blinding—as those claws ripped through his robes, shirt, and skin in one savage strike.

Harry's scream tore through the night. Hot blood poured down his chest as he stumbled backward, tripping over a root and falling hard. The copper smell filled his nostrils as the werewolf loomed over him, saliva dripping onto Harry's face. He raised his arms defensively, but they felt leaden, unresponsive.

The werewolf's head darted forward, jaws aiming for Harry's exposed throat. 

"HARRY!" Hermione's scream seemed to come from miles away.

This was it. This was how Harry Potter would die—not at Voldemort's hands, but in the jaws of his father's friend.

"LUMOS MAXIMA!" Hermione's voice rang out, clear and powerful.

A blinding white light erupted from her wand, as bright as the sun. The werewolf reared back with a pained howl, paws covering its sensitive eyes. Harry felt the creature's weight shift off him as it staggered sideways, momentarily blinded and disoriented.

"Professor Lupin! It's us!" Hermione cried desperately, though her voice trembled. "Harry and Hermione! Your students! Please remember!"

But her pleas fell on deaf ears. The werewolf shook its massive head, blinking away the effects of the light spell. When its eyes reopened, they fixed not on Harry's prone form, but on Hermione. A new growl—deeper, more menacing—rumbled from its chest.

Hermione backed away, wand still raised. "Harry, get up! Please get up!"

The werewolf dropped to all fours, muscles bunching beneath its fur as it prepared to charge. Its attention now entirely focused on Hermione, it took one step forward, then another, stalking her with predatory patience.

"RUN!" Harry croaked, trying to push himself up despite the fire in his chest and arm. Blood leaked between his fingers as he pressed his hand against the claw marks. "HERMIONE, RUN!"

But Hermione stood her ground, wand pointed at the advancing werewolf, her hand visibly shaking but her stance defiant. "I won't leave you, Harry!"

A white-hot sensation spread outward from the wounds like molten metal poured into his veins. It wasn't just pain—it was fire, it was electricity, it was magic.

Not Hermione. Not her.

The thought echoed with surprising clarity through Harry's mind, cutting through the haze of agony. He'd lost his parents. He'd nearly lost Sirius tonight. He would not lose Hermione.

Blood soaked his torn shirt, but Harry found himself pushing up from the forest floor, defying what should have been crippling injuries. His limbs trembled not with weakness but with a strange, frenetic energy that seemed to pulse in time with his racing heartbeat.

"Get away from her!" he shouted, but his voice sounded different—deeper, sounding like it came from deep within his soul.

Something extraordinary was happening to Harry's senses. The darkness of the forest suddenly didn't seem so impenetrable. Details emerged from the shadows—the individual leaves on distant trees, the tiny insects scurrying across bark, the flicker of fear in Hermione's eyes as she backed away from the advancing werewolf. He could see it all with crystal clarity, as though someone had adjusted a focus knob on the world itself.

And the smells—Merlin, the smells. The rich loam of the forest floor. The sharp tang of pine needles. The coppery scent of his own blood. Hermione's fear had a scent too—acrid and sharp, cutting through everything else.

But most overpowering was the musky, animal reek of the werewolf. Harry could smell Lupin's hunger, his rage, his complete abandonment of humanity.

His ears caught sounds he shouldn't have been able to hear—Hermione's rapid heartbeat, the whisper of an owl's wings a hundred yards away, and the soft padding of the werewolf's paws as it prepared to pounce.

What's happening to me? The question flashed through Harry's mind, but there was no time to dwell on it. Instinct took over, a new instinct that hummed in his blood and bones.

The werewolf lunged at Hermione, who stood frozen, wand forgotten in her terror.

Harry moved without conscious thought. One moment, he was meters away; the next, he was between them. 

His fist connected with the werewolf's jaw with a sickening crack. Bone met bone with force that should have shattered Harry's hand, but instead, it was Lupin who went flying—five meters, ten, until his massive body slammed into an ancient oak tree with enough impact to shower them with dead bark and leaves.

The werewolf slumped, momentarily stunned. Harry stared at his own fist, then at the downed creature, uncomprehending. He'd just punched a fully transformed werewolf hard enough to send it flying. That wasn't possible. That wasn't human.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice broke through his bewilderment. "Your eyes!"

"What?" He half-turned toward her, still keeping his gaze fixed on the werewolf, which was already beginning to stir.

"They're yellow—bright yellow!" Her voice was a mixture of fear and fascination. 

He didn't have time to process this revelation. The werewolf had regained its footing, shaking its massive head and fixing Harry with a gaze of pure hatred. Blood matted the fur around its jaw where Harry's punch had connected. It lowered its body, teeth bared in a snarl that promised death.

"Stay back," Harry ordered Hermione, his voice that same strange, deeper version of itself. "Find cover."

"Harry, no—you can't—"

"I said STAY BACK!" The words came out as a roar that startled them both. In that moment, Harry caught his reflection in Hermione's wide eyes—his face was still his own, but his eyes glowed like twin lanterns in the darkness.

The werewolf charged again, but this time Harry was ready. The world seemed to slow around him, as though everyone else moved through treacle while he operated at normal speed. He ducked the first swipe of those deadly claws, rolling beneath the outstretched arm and coming up behind the creature.

But Lupin was far from slow. The werewolf twisted, its back paw catching Harry across the shoulder, tearing through his sleeve and the flesh beneath. Harry hissed at the fresh pain but found it oddly distant, as though it were happening to someone else.

"Is that all you've got, Professor?" Harry taunted, surprised by his own bravado.

The werewolf answered with a roar that shook the leaves from nearby branches. It lunged again, jaws snapping at air as Harry sidestepped with newfound agility. But this time, the creature's claws found their mark, raking across Harry's forearm as he raised it defensively.

Blood sprayed in an arc that looked black in the moonlight, but Harry barely registered the wound. He found himself growling, actually growling, as he circled his former professor.

Harry landed blows that would have felled a giant. His fists connected with unnatural strength, each impact punctuated by the crack of bone or the whoosh of air driven from lupine lungs.

"Harry, your wand!" Hermione shouted from behind a boulder where she'd taken shelter. "Use your wand!"

But Harry had forgotten about magic entirely. Something in his blood sang with savage joy at the pure, animal struggle of it.

The werewolf tried to circle around, clearly attempting to get to Hermione, but Harry anticipated the move. He launched himself at the creature's flank, tackling it to the ground with enough force to leave a depression in the forest floor. They rolled together in a fury of claws, teeth, and fists.

Harry felt no fear now, only a burning determination coupled with an alien confidence in his body's new capabilities. He moved with inhuman speed, dodging attacks that should have eviscerated him, countering with blows that no thirteen-year-old wizard should have been able to deliver.

Blood—both his and Lupin's—made the werewolf's fur slick under Harry's hands as he grappled with the creature. The werewolf's jaws snapped inches from his face, fetid breath washing over him, but Harry held the massive head at bay with strength he never knew he possessed.

"I won't let you hurt her," Harry snarled into the werewolf's face. "I won't let you hurt anyone else!"

With a roar that tore at his throat, Harry slammed his forehead into the werewolf's snout. Cartilage crunched beneath the impact. The creature howled in pain, momentarily stunned, and Harry seized his advantage. He rolled, gaining the dominant position, and delivered a final, devastating punch to the werewolf's temple.

The impact reverberated through the clearing like a thunderclap. The werewolf's eyes rolled back, its massive body going limp beneath Harry.

Silence fell over the forest. Harry remained straddling the unconscious werewolf, chest heaving, blood dripping from multiple lacerations across his body. Each breath burned in his lungs, but the pain remained strangely distant—an inconvenience rather than a debilitation.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, staring down at Professor Lupin's transformed body. The werewolf's chest still rose and fell; he hadn't killed it—hadn't killed him. Relief washed through Harry, tempering the wild exhilaration that had gripped him during the fight.

"Harry?" Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper as she emerged from behind the boulder. She approached slowly, her wand still raised, though whether it was pointed at Lupin or at Harry himself, he couldn't quite tell. Her eyes were wide, moving from the unconscious werewolf to Harry's blood-soaked form with equal parts fear and amazement.

"Are you... are you okay?" she asked, stopping several feet away.

"I think so," Harry replied, glancing down at himself. His clothes hung in tatters, and blood covered nearly every visible inch of skin, yet he remained standing. More than standing—he felt powerful, alert, alive in a way he'd never experienced before. "Hermione, what's happening to me?"

Before she could answer, Harry's head snapped up, his nostrils flaring. A foul stench had reached him—like rotting meat and stagnant water and despair given physical form. The smell was so potent he nearly gagged, yet he knew instinctively what it was.

"Dementors," he said, his glowing eyes widening. "I can smell them." He turned toward the direction of the Whomping Willow, where they'd left Ron and Sirius. "They're coming for Sirius. Dozens of them."

"You can smell Dementors?" Hermione asked incredulously. "Harry, that's not—"

But Harry was already moving, his legs carrying him through the forest with impossible speed, leaving Hermione and the unconscious werewolf behind.

Harry tore through the forest, branches whipping past his face without leaving a mark. The impossible speed felt natural, as though his legs had always been capable of this fluid, animal-like motion. Trees blurred into streaks of shadow and moonlight as he bounded over fallen logs and ducked under low-hanging branches without breaking stride.

"Harry! Wait!" Hermione's voice sounded distant behind him, her footsteps struggling to match his pace.

He wanted to slow down, to wait for her, but something drove him forward. The foul stench of the Dementors grew stronger with each stride, filling his nostrils with the reek of decay and despair. His thoughts splintered into jagged fragments—protect Sirius, protect Ron, cold, so cold coming, death coming—basic instincts overriding rational thought.

He burst from the tree line near the Whomping Willow, skidding to a halt on the dew-slick grass. 

Dozens of Dementors swarmed like massive, spectral wasps, their tattered black robes billowing in a wind that affected nothing else. They spiraled downward toward two figures huddled at the base of the frozen willow—Sirius, barely conscious, and Ron, his pale face ghostly in the moonlight, his wand hand trembling as he tried desperately to defend them both.

"G-get back!" Ron shouted, his voice cracking with terror. "Flipendo! Incendio! Stupefy!"

Each spell flickered weakly from his wand, dying before it reached the nearest Dementor. The cold intensified with each failed attempt, frost forming on the grass around them.

Harry could see one Dementor hovering directly over Sirius, skeletal hands reaching for its hood. It was preparing to administer the Kiss—to suck out Sirius's soul.

"NO!" Harry roared, the sound more animal than human. He drew his wand, and it hummed between his fingers, responding to the wild magic surging through his transformed body.

The familiar wave of cold washed over him as the nearest Dementors sensed his presence and turned toward this new, vibrant soul. Images flashed before his eyes—his mother's screams, green light, Voldemort's high-pitched laughter—but they seemed muted, as though the new power coursing through his veins created a buffer between himself and the Dementors' worst effects.

Harry raised his wand.

' "Hermione!" Harry ran up to her, hugging her close, delighted that she was no longer petrified.'

' "Yes, Harry, a Home. You will never have to return to them again. You can live with me in my home." '

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" he bellowed.

The magic that erupted from his wand wasn't the thin silver mist of his previous attempts. It wasn't even the incorporeal shield he'd managed in practice with Professor Lupin. This was solid, blinding silver-white light that poured from his wand like liquid moonlight, coalescing into a form so vibrant and real it seemed it might step off the ground and walk away on its own.

The stag stood taller than Harry himself, its antlers spanning wider than his outstretched arms. It pawed the ground with hooves that left glowing impressions in the earth, and when it tossed its majestic head, trailing motes of silver light scattered like stars. Steam rose from its nostrils as it surveyed the Dementors with eyes that burned with the same unnatural brightness as Harry's own.

"Prongs," Harry whispered.

The stag turned its head toward Harry, acknowledging him with a slight bow, then charged. It moved like mercury, fluid and unstoppable, leaving trails of silver light in its wake. Its antlers lowered as it slammed into the first Dementor, which emitted a bone-chilling shriek as it was tossed aside like a rag doll.

The Patronus didn't stop. It leapt among the Dementors, scattering them in all directions. Where it passed, the air warmed, and the paralyzing despair lifted. Dementors fled before it, their dark forms dissolving into the night sky as they retreated.

"Bloody hell," Ron gasped, staring at the spectacle with his mouth hanging open. "Harry, that's—that's incredible!"

Sirius raised his head weakly, his sunken eyes finding Harry's glowing ones. Recognition and confusion mingled in his godfather's gaze.

The stag made another circuit around them, driving away the last of the Dementors. As it passed, Harry felt its warmth flow through him like the finest Butterbeer on a winter day. But even as the magnificent creature completed its work, he felt the strength that had carried him through the night beginning to ebb.

The wounds from Lupin's claws—somehow forgotten in the heat of battle—now blazed with renewed pain. The blood loss, the exertion, the magical drain of producing such a powerful Patronus—it was all too much.

Harry's knees buckled. His vision tunneled, darkening at the edges until all he could see was the silver stag standing guard over Sirius and Ron, its light pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

"Harry!" Hermione's voice reached him as she finally emerged from the forest, breathless and wide-eyed.

He tried to respond, but his tongue felt thick and unresponsive. The last of his strength drained away, and he pitched forward onto the cool grass.

As consciousness slipped from his grasp, the final image burned into his mind was his Patronus—his father's Animagus form—standing vigilant over the godfather who had loved them both, its silver light holding back the darkness for just a little while longer.

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Pain was Harry's first conscious sensation—a persistent throbbing at the base of his skull that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The second was the antiseptic smell that could only mean one thing: Hospital Wing. Again.

His eyelids felt weighted with lead as he forced them open, immediately squinting against the harsh morning light streaming through tall windows. A blurry figure sat beside his bed—a tangle of bushy brown hair immediately identifying her even without his glasses.

"Hermione?" His voice came out as a dry rasp, barely audible.

"Harry!" The relief in her voice was palpable as she leaned forward, gently placing his glasses on his face. The world came into sharp focus, revealing Hermione's exhausted features. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her hair looked wilder than usual, as though she'd been running her hands through it for hours. "You're awake. Thank Merlin."

Harry tried to sit up but immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his chest. Looking down, he saw bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, visible beneath his partially unbuttoned pajama top.

"Don't try to move," Hermione urged, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Madam Pomfrey said you need to stay still. You lost a lot of blood."

Memories flooded back in disjointed flashes: moonlight, werewolf claws, impossible strength, his fist connecting with Lupin's jaw, Dementors swarming, his stag Patronus...

"Ron?" Harry croaked, suddenly remembering his injured friend.

Hermione nodded toward the other side of the room. "Over there. Sleeping. Madam Pomfrey mended his leg, but she gave him a sleeping draught." S

Harry swallowed thickly, his throat painfully dry. Hermione seemed to anticipate his need, helping him take a sip of water from a glass on the bedside table.

"Sirius? Wormtail?" he asked after drinking greedily.

Hermione's expression fell. She glanced nervously at the Hospital Wing doors before leaning closer, her voice dropping to just above a whisper.

"Wormtail escaped in the confusion. After you collapsed..." She bit her lower lip. "Sirius wanted to stay, but he then told us that he could not stay, without Peter he would not able to prove his innocent, so he turned into a dog and ran away. Snape showed up. He conjured stretchers for you and Ron, and brought you and him to Hogwarts."

Relief flooded through Harry, though it was quickly tempered by disappointment. For a few precious hours, he'd entertained the hope of leaving the Dursleys forever, of having a real home with his godfather. That dream now seemed as distant as ever.

"He said to tell you he'll be in touch soon," Hermione added, squeezing his hand. "He made me promise to tell you that this isn't goodbye. Just... a delay."

Harry managed a weak smile. "At least he's free. That's what matters."

"Harry..." Hermione began hesitantly, her eyes darting to his bandaged chest. "About what happened in the forest—"

The Hospital Wing doors swung open with a bang, cutting off whatever she'd been about to say. Professor Dumbledore strode in, his purple robes swirling dramatically around his tall frame. Behind him followed Minister Cornelius Fudge, looking harried in his pinstriped cloak and lime-green bowler hat, and Professor Snape, whose black eyes immediately fixed on Harry with undisguised loathing.

"Ah, Mr. Potter is awake," Dumbledore announced cheerfully, as though commenting on particularly fine weather. "Excellent timing."

"Headmaster," Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office, looking distinctly annoyed. "I must protest. This boy needs rest, not an interrogation."

"I assure you, Poppy, we'll be brief," Dumbledore replied with a placating smile. "Minister Fudge simply has a few questions before he returns to London."

Fudge stepped forward, twisting his bowler hat nervously in his hands. "Yes, just a formality, really. Quite a night you had, eh, Potter?"

Before Harry could respond, Snape cut in, his voice dripping with venom. "A night in which Potter assaulted a teacher and aided in the escape of a convicted murderer."

"I didn't—" Harry started, but Hermione squeezed his hand in warning.

"Really, Severus," Dumbledore said mildly, though his blue eyes had lost their twinkle. "Let's not jump to conclusions. Three injured children, a transformed werewolf, and a swarm of Dementors—the situation was quite chaotic, by all accounts."

"Chaos Potter deliberately created," Snape insisted, his sallow face flushed with anger. "He attacked me in the Shrieking Shack, Headmaster. Knocked me unconscious alongside his little friends." He gestureed dismissively toward Hermione.

"I find that difficult to believe, Severus," Dumbledore replied. "Three third-year students overpowering a fully qualified wizard? Particularly one as skilled as yourself?"

Fudge cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well, seems rather far-fetched, doesn't it? And the boy's clearly been injured quite severely himself."

"By the werewolf," Snape spat. "After he freed Black and allowed Pettigrew to escape."

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Hermione. Snape knew about Pettigrew? How much had he overheard before they attacked him in the Shrieking Shack?

"Peter Pettigrew is dead," Fudge stated firmly. "Killed by Black twelve years ago, along with those poor Muggles."

"Minister," Harry said, seizing the opportunity, "there's something you should know—"

Hermione's fingers dug painfully into his hand again, and Harry caught the minute shake of her head. He suddenly understood her warning. Without Pettigrew himself as evidence, any claim about his survival would sound like the desperate lies of a confunded teenager.

Fudge approached the bed, peering down at Harry with what he probably thought was a kindly expression but came across as patronizing. "What is it, my boy?"

Harry swallowed his frustration. "I... I don't remember much, sir. Everything's a blur after Professor Lupin transformed."

Fudge nodded sympathetically. "Quite understandable. Traumatic experience, facing a werewolf. The fact that you survived at all is remarkable."

"They've clearly been confunded by Black," Snape insisted, eyes narrowing at Harry and Hermione. "Or they're lying to protect him."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Three seriously injured children successfully confunded to maintain a consistent false narrative? That would require extraordinary magical skill, Severus. Even for someone of Sirius Black's caliber."

"And what reason would Potter have to protect the man who betrayed his parents?" Fudge added, looking increasingly uncomfortable with Snape's accusations.

"The same reason he breaks rules with impunity every year," Snape replied coldly. "Because he believes himself above consequences, just like his father."

"That's enough, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice suddenly steel. "I suggest you return to your duties. The Minister and I wish to speak with Mr. Potter and Miss Granger privately."

For a moment, it seemed Snape might argue further. Instead, he turned on his heel, black robes billowing dramatically as he stalked toward the door. Before exiting, he threw one last venomous glare at Harry that promised this wasn't over.

As the door slammed behind him, Fudge exhaled heavily. "Passionate man, your Potions Master. Perhaps a bit... overzealous in his assessment?"

"Severus has his reasons," Dumbledore said enigmatically. "Now, Harry, Miss Granger—I understand you both claim to remember little of last night's events?"

The emphasis on "claim" wasn't lost on Harry. Dumbledore's penetrating blue eyes seemed to see right through the lie, but his slight nod encouraged them to maintain it.

"It's all confused, sir," Hermione replied, her voice steady despite the obvious falsehood. "We were trying to help Ron back to the castle when Professor Lupin transformed. After that..." She trailed off with a convincing shudder.

"I remember trying to run," Harry added. "Then pain. Then nothing until I woke up here."

Fudge nodded, clearly relieved by their lack of contradictory testimony. "Well, that seems straightforward enough. Unfortunate about Black's escape, of course, but we'll apprehend him again soon. The Dementors have been recalled to Azkaban—after their unauthorized attempt to administer the Kiss to a student, I can hardly leave them stationed at a school." He looked genuinely appalled at the thought.

"A wise decision, Minister," Dumbledore agreed smoothly.

"Yes, well." Fudge replaced his bowler hat, seemingly eager to conclude the interview. "I should be getting back to London. The Prophet will want a statement, and there's paperwork..." He sighed heavily. "Duty calls, I'm afraid."

"Of course, Minister. I'll escort you to the gates." Dumbledore turned back to Harry and Hermione. "Rest now, both of you. We'll speak again later."

The significant look Dumbledore gave them made it clear that "later" would involve a more honest accounting of the night's events. As the two men departed, Harry sank back against his pillows, exhaustion overtaking him once more.

"Sirius is really gone," he murmured, the full weight of disappointment settling in his chest alongside the pain from his wounds.

Hermione's hand found his again. "But he's free, Harry. And he's safe. That's what matters right now."

Harry nodded, trying to take comfort in that thought as his eyelids grew heavy once more. Through the fog of approaching sleep, one question nagged at him: What exactly had happened to him in that forest? And what would happen when the next full moon rose?

Harry had just begun to doze off when the Hospital Wing doors opened again. This time, Professor Dumbledore entered alone, his footsteps nearly silent on the stone floor. Without the Minister or Snape present, the Headmaster's demeanor had changed.

"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been mauled by a werewolf," Harry replied dryly, then winced. "Sorry, Professor. That wasn't funny."

"On the contrary," Dumbledore's lips curved slightly, "gallows humor is often the mind's first defense against trauma. Quite understandable." His expression grew serious again. "Do you remember what happened in the forest?"

Harry glanced at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly.

"I remember everything," Harry admitted. "Professor Lupin transformed. He attacked us. He scratched me and..." He trailed off, unsure how to explain the impossible strength, the glowing eyes, the inhuman speed.

"And you experienced some rather extraordinary changes," Dumbledore finished for him.

"You know about that?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Miss Granger provided a most detailed account while you were unconscious." Dumbledore inclined his head toward Hermione, who blushed slightly. "It seems you demonstrated abilities far beyond those of an ordinary wizard—or indeed, an ordinary human."

Harry frowned, struggling to sit up straighter. Pain flared across his chest with the movement, and he gasped.

"Perhaps it would be helpful to see what we're dealing with," Dumbledore suggested gently. With a flick of his wand, he conjured a large mirror that hovered at the foot of Harry's bed. Another subtle wand movement pushed Harry's pajama top open.

Harry stared at his reflection in shock. Four parallel slashes ran diagonally from his right shoulder nearly to his left hip—deep, angry red gashes that had been magically sealed but would clearly leave substantial scars. They looked like claw marks branded into his flesh.

"Merlin," he whispered, raising a hand to touch the wounds gingerly.

"Werewolf injuries are notoriously resistant to magical healing," Dumbledore explained. "Even with Madam Pomfrey's considerable skills, these will scar."

"But I'm not... I won't become..." Harry couldn't finish the question.

"A full werewolf? No." Dumbledore shook his head. "A scratch, even a severe one, does not transmit complete lycanthropy. However..." He paused, considering his words carefully. "It appears there have been certain... alterations to your physiology."

Before Dumbledore could elaborate further, Madam Pomfrey bustled in, carrying a clipboard and several vials of potion. Her professional demeanor was firmly in place, though Harry noticed she wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

"Headmaster, I have the test results," she announced, glancing briefly at Harry. "And the potions are prepared."

"Excellent timing, Poppy," Dumbledore stood smoothly. "I believe this is where your expertise is most needed."

Madam Pomfrey placed the vials on Harry's bedside table and consulted her clipboard with a frown. "This is quite unprecedented, actually. I've treated werewolf scratches before, but the readings I'm getting from Mr. Potter's blood samples are..." She trailed off, glancing at Hermione, then back to Dumbledore. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately?"

Harry's brow furrowed. "Whatever it is, I'm going to tell Hermione anyway."

"I'm afraid this particular matter is of a... sensitive nature," Madam Pomfrey replied, her normally brisk tone softening. "Medical privacy is important, Mr. Potter, especially in this case."

"I really don't mind—" Harry began, but Dumbledore raised a hand to silence him.

"Poppy is correct, Harry. Some conversations are best had privately first, then shared with friends at your discretion." He turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, would you mind stepping outside briefly? I promise it won't be long."

Hermione looked torn, glancing between Harry and the adults.

"It's okay, Hermione," Harry assured her, though he was equally confused. "I'll tell you everything later."

"Fine," she sighed, standing reluctantly. She squeezed Harry's hand once more before departing with Dumbledore, throwing curious glances over her shoulder until the door closed behind her.

Once she was gone, Madam Pomfrey cast a quick privacy charm around the bed. "Now then, Mr. Potter." Her businesslike demeanor returned as she consulted her clipboard. "The good news is that you will not transform into a werewolf during the full moon. Your condition is what we call partial lycanthropy, or in layman's terms, werewolf-adjacent syndrome."

Harry blinked at the clinical terminology. "Werewolf-adjacent?"

"Yes. You've acquired several of the enhanced traits without the full transformation curse," she continued matter-of-factly. "Your strength, speed, reflexes, and sensory perception are all significantly elevated above human norms. Your healing factor has also accelerated—those wounds would have killed an ordinary person, but you're already well on the way to recovery."

Harry thought about the impossible strength he'd felt, the clarity of his vision in the darkness, the way he'd smelled the Dementors from a distance. "So I'm what... part werewolf now?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes," She confirmed. "Though 'werewolf-touched' might be more accurate. The curse has altered you but not consumed you."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Harry ventured cautiously. Enhanced abilities seemed more like a gift than a curse compared to what could have happened. He didn't understand why Hermione needed to be outside.

Madam Pomfrey cleared her throat, a slight flush appearing on her normally composed features. "There are... other effects that manifest particularly during the lunar cycle, Mr. Potter."

"Other effects?" Harry repeated uneasily.

She straightened her spine, adopting a clinical tone that somehow made what came next even more mortifying. "During the full moon phase, patients with partial lycanthropy experience significantly elevated levels of certain hormones. This results in increased aggression, territorial behavior, and—" she hesitated for a fraction of a second, "—sexual arousal."

Harry felt heat flooding his face. "I—what?"

"To put it plainly, Mr. Potter," she continued, powering through her obvious discomfort, "for approximately three days each month centered around the full moon, you will experience powerful urges of a sexual nature. Your libido will increase dramatically, along with a heightened attraction to potential partners."

Harry's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his face burning so hot he thought he might spontaneously combust. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation with his school nurse.

"This is perfectly natural given your condition," Madam Pomfrey added, as though she were discussing a mild case of dragon pox. "But it will require management, particularly as you're at a developmental stage where hormones are already in flux."

Harry wanted to sink through the floor. "Management?" he croaked.

"Yes. I've prepared a special potion." She indicated one of the vials on the table—it contained a liquid the color of twilight with silver specks floating in suspension. "This will help moderate the more... intense urges during the full moon. You'll need to take it three days before, the day of, and three days after the full moon. A weekly dose, in essence."

"And if I don't?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

"You would likely find it difficult to concentrate, control your impulses, or maintain appropriate boundaries," she replied with clinical precision. "The potion doesn't eliminate the effects entirely—but it makes them manageable."

"Am I... dangerous?" Harry forced himself to ask the question he feared most. "To others, I mean. Like Professor Lupin is?"

She laid a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "No, Mister Potter. You won't transform into a beast or lose control of your actions. You will always remain Harry Potter, with your full faculties and moral compass intact. You'll simply experience certain... enhanced drives. More intense emotions, keener senses, greater physical capabilities. Many would consider these advantages, if properly managed."

Harry stared down at his scarred chest, mind racing with implications. He thought about returning to Hogwarts next year with these changes. Would other students notice? Would the professors? What would happen during Quidditch when his enhanced reflexes kicked in? And what about during the full moon when he'd apparently become some sort of... hormone-driven teenage super-wizard?

"I recommend discretion regarding your condition," Madam Pomfrey said, as though reading Harry's thoughts. "Prejudice against those with lycanthropic traits runs deep in wizarding society, as Professor Lupin could attest."

Harry nodded numbly, still processing. Madam Pomfrey continued with instructions about the potion—dosage schedules, potential side effects, warning signs to watch for—but he absorbed only half of it. His gaze had drifted to the window, where the waning moon hung in the morning sky, pale but present even in daylight.

It looked different to him now. Not just a celestial body, but a force that would exert its pull on him monthly for the rest of his life. Harry's fingers traced the rough edges of his new scars through the bandages. He didn't feel like the same Harry Potter who had walked into the Shrieking Shack yesterday. Something fundamental had shifted inside him—something wild and powerful that would change everything from this point forward.

"I'll leave you to rest," She said finally. 

Harry nodded again, still staring at the moon. As Madam Pomfrey departed, a strange sense of possibility mingled with his apprehension. He'd survived the impossible once again—the Killing Curse, Professor Quirrell, the basilisk, Dementors, and now a werewolf attack.

But this time, Harry Potter hadn't escaped unchanged. This time, the miracle had left its mark, not just on his skin, but in his blood and bones.

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