Harry stepped out of his Apparation to a proper welcome.

  Snarling. Scraping. Heavy blows rattled the door in its frame.

  Yowling kneazles joined the cacophony, shrieking in harmony.

  He scowled.

  Worse than Myrtle.

  Bang.

  Arabella and her cats were huddled in the corner of a small cottage. The barricaded door shook as the blows continued to hammer against it.

  With no immediate threat in the room, he dashed to her.

  Apparating her away would be the simplest way to keep her safe.

  “Grab my hand, I’ll get you out of here.”

  He extended his arm, and she made to reach for it, then hesitated.

  “What about my kneazles? And everyone else?”

  Bang.

  Right. No way she’d leave without Mr. Tibbles.

  He grabbed a small bell on a ribbon from the shelf beside him. A tap of his wand later, and a Portkey was ready for Arabella and her cats.

  “Your one-way ticket to the Leaky Cauldron.”

  He set it down before her.

  “But first, do you know who’s attacking?”

  She swallowed hard. “Werewolves, far’s I can tell. All that howlin’ an’ it’s the full moon, innit?”

  She clutched her kneazles close to her chest. “Village ain’t got defences. Just squibs an’ muggle folk, mostly.”

  Shite.

  BANG.

  The door crashed in.

  Fangs, fur, and claws smashed at the furniture that had been holding the door shut.

  “Contact the Aurors, I’ll do what I can.”

  Five pairs of eyes widened in alarm. With a wave of his hand, the bell shot into Arabella’s lap. In a blink, she and her clowder were whisked away.

  CRASH.

  And not a moment too soon.

  The werewolf leapt from the wreckage of the barricade.

  Claws out. Fangs bared.

  Harry’s wrist flicked up, wand barely moving.

  Planks erupted from the floor like a bamboo grove, impaling the airborne wolf, wrenching it from flight. It howled, its weight dragging it down the jagged stakes.

  His wand spiralled downward in three rapid twirls.

  The planks followed the motion, coiling and pressing the beast into the floor. It thrashed, but the bindings held.

  A final jab transmuted the oak to silver.

  The creature whimpered. Its eyelids fluttered. Then it sagged, boneless.

  One down. But this wasn’t a lone wolf.

  The baying from out the shattered doorway proved him correct.

  They’re all sitting ducks. I’ll need to give the pack a reason to abandon their prey.

  He had an idea. The kind you’d expect of a Marauder.

  Despite the gravity, an impish grin sprouted across his face.

  · · ·

  Whir. Whir. Whir.

  Harry’s mechanical hummingbirds bust out of the doorway, darting in every direction.

  A moment later, he stepped out. His image flickered before solidifying.

  Down the street, a stand of oaks loomed over the town’s crossroads. He Apparated to the old stone church the copse was flanking.

  It seemed serviceable.

  Screams joined the howls, rising with the full moon.

  Gritting his teeth, he pulled out the Elder Wand.

  DOMINATE

  The familiar pressure on his mind was unwelcome, but the strength of the wand was undeniable.

  It pulled the magic from him as quick as thought, the cobblestone of the crossroads curdled into a bituminous resin.

  A scream tore through the air, then was cut silenced.

  He clenched his jaw.

  Looking up, bright pinpricks of light hovered in the air throughout the village.

  Harry tapped the side of his glasses. The lens filled with a dozen panels, the bird’s senses being shared with him.

  He lifted his wand. A pulse rippled outward and the hovering birds began to chirp. Sharp, incessant, and grating.

  Then, they dove.

  Flashes lit up the night. Pained baying followed.

  The birds dusted their prey in acrid smokescreens. The howls rose in pitch. More primal. Panicked.

  A muzzle wrinkled in fury. A wolf raking at its own face.

  His little marauders were in fine form. Taunting chirps. Needling songs. Maddening chittering.

  The birds flittered about the wolves with admirable irritance.

  Glowing. Darting. Singing.

  Always just out of reach as they looped and wove in dizzying spirals.

  By God, they’ve gone full Weasley.

  The wolves snapped and lunged, chasing the flying menaces, ignoring their initial prey.

  Harry adjusted the lens, tracking their approach as the birds kited them toward him.

  The first bird arrived, darting over to circle above Harry’s visible form.

  Its trailing wolf bounded forward, only to stagger, its charge stalling as the cloying tar took hold. The beast continued to struggle, dragging a leg free with visible effort.

  The next two barreled in, colliding with the first and knocking it flat.

  The pups began to whine.

  Can’t have that.

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  A quick jab and a zone of silence popped into existence.

  Their… warnings? Whinging? Struggles? Yes, struggles. Now reduced to a purely visual medium.

  The pack kept rolling in, their senses clearly compromised, courtesy of his clockwork flock.

  Soon, nearly all the birds had gathered overhead, only one or two left hovering over the village.

  A slash of the wand, and the tar congealed back to stone.

  What had been grasping and clinging, now pulled at the wolves. Dense. Immovable.

  And just like that, a whole pack trapped in stone.

  Still blessedly silenced, the wolves twisted and snarled, their full moon granted strength was on full display as the surrounding stone began to crack in places.

  One particularly large wolf surged forward, only a single leg remained anchored.

  It locked eyes with Harry.

  Then crouched.

  Tap.

  The stone turned to iron.

  The beast lunged. And slammed face-first into the ground.

  Unconscious.

  Before Harry could manage a witty quip, a larger form landed before the trapped pack of werewolves.

  Greyback.

  The massive werewolf lumbered forward, a dangerous gleam of intelligence in the eyes of his otherwise rabid face.

  His fur was matted. Streaked with dark stains. Maybe blood. Though, honestly, could just be his general hygiene.

  His breath curled in the cool air as he looked over his struggling pack, eyes narrowing.

  Two wolves flanked him. A nod of his head, and they bounded towards Harry.

  Greyback pulled out a wand, pressing it to the iron ground. He roared as he channelled power into the transfiguration.

  Harry cursed as the werewolf somehow used magic.

  Because of course he can.

  With two flicks of his wand, chains of silver shot forward, binding the advancing wolves into helpless heaps of fur and teeth.

  He turned back to deal with the loudly straining Greyback, just as the transfiguration unravelled.

  The iron glowed red. Molten.

  Heat shimmered from the metal as it melted into a bubbling pit of mud.

  The wolves’ howls were audible once more, as Harry’s enchantments were undone.

  The singed pack surged from the slag. Pain drove their rage to new heights.

  Harry sighed.

  His tidy trap, buggered beyond belief.

  He flicked his eyes to the thick, knotted trees.

  Right then. Gloves off.

  He hissed.

  A low, sibilant sound slithered between his teeth.

  The old oaks shuddered.

  Gnarled roots twisted beneath the loam, tendrils extending.

  The pack was nearly upon him.

  The earth bulged.

  Unnatural waves.

  Oaks convulsed.

  Alive.

  Then they exploded.

  Geysers of writhing limbs burst from the ground. A mass of tangled motion surging toward the pack.

  The copse exploded into a wave of wooden snakes.

  Alarmed yelps filled the air.

  At first, the wolves fought.

  Fangs crushed.

  Claws tore.

  Muscled bulged.

  Wood splintered.

  Not enough. Not even close.

  Every torn snake spawned two more. Four. Eight.

  The legion continued in an endless deluge.

  Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands.

  They burst from the soil. Sprayed from the trunk. Showered from the canopy.

  The tide swelled. Ankle-deep. Then waist-high.

  A wolf reeled back as dozens of serpentine form wrapped its limbs. Legs. Throat.

  An enormous wolf fought. Tearing, twisting, and driving toward Harry.

  Then the wave crashed over it, swallowing it whole.

  None escaped.

  Then Greyback struck.

  Lunging from his blindspot as he handled the pack, the werewolf’s claws ripped toward his throat.

  And passed clean through.

  No resistance.

  Flesh parted. Blood spra—

  Just kidding.

  Harry’s figure wavered, then faded away.

  Greyback turned, snarling, but his prey was invisible.

  Barbed, silver links shot from thin air, lashing around his limbs, locking tight.

  He hit the ground hard, thrashing. Movement drove the silver fangs deeper.

  Harry pulled back the Cloak.

  He stood a few yards away from where his Mirror Image had drawn the wolf’s attack.

  Greyback’s chest rose and fell in ragged, furious breaths.

  “You fight like a coward. Pathetic wizard! I’ll stake you down and flay the skin from your bones! I’ll find who you love, turn them, and laugh as they eat you, piece by piece. You—”

  Harry flicked his wand.

  A muzzle clamped over Greyback’s snout.

  The tirade cut off into a muffled, furious snarl.

  “Bad dog.”

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  Boots on dirt. Wands raised.

  Aurors poured into the village, led by a familiar face.

  Alastor Moody.

  The man possessed a full set of limbs.

  He paused, both good eyes locked onto the astonishing site before him.

  Two dozen werewolves, only their heads above ground.

  A grotesque patch of twitching, whimpering werewolf cabbages were lined up, trapped and helpless.

  The feared werewolf, Greyback, lay pinned bonelessly beneath burning silver.

  Muzzled.

  “Merlin’s bloody bones.”

  Harry glanced at the reinforcements.

  “About time.”

  · · ·

  “About time!”

  The woman screamed it.

  Her face was raw. Broken. Caked in tears and blood not her own.

  In her arms: a child.

  Small. So small.

  A half-moon of puncture wounds marred her shoulder.

  Greyback’s final gift.

  Harry didn’t look away.

  Didn’t deafen himself to her cries.

  Didn’t speak.

  A nameless Auror bristled, posture stiffening.

  “There were other attacks. Attacks on proper wiza—”

  Moody cut the man off, shooting him a glare.

  “ENOUGH!”

  The woman’s anger dried up. She hunched forward over her child. Collapsing.

  She wept.

  The girl in her arms reached up, touching her mother’s face. Her heavy arms trembled.

  Harry looked to the Auror.

  He’d not captured all the monsters this night.

  Moving forward slowly, Moody stepped aside for him.

  Harry crouched before the pair, low to the ground. He caught the mother’s eye.

  “May I please soothe her pain?”

  Her eyes flicked up to the red robed figures above them. Unmoving. Watching. Looming.

  She gulped.

  Then she looked across to him. Tired brown herringbone. Gentle eyes.

  She nodded slowly.

  He looked down to the child.

  Amber eyes looked back.

  “Hello, little one. You’re strong, aren’t you?”

  Her eyes were alert and a bit wary, but she nodded.

  His holly wand came slowly to his hand.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  Her eyes widened a tad, and another nod came quicker.

  “Bright girl,” he smiled. “May I show you a little trick?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  Harry flourished his wand with a theatrical swish.

  “Bippity. Boppity. Boo.”

  A long balloon began to inflate from the tip of his wand with a squeak, twisting itself into knots with a few fussy flips.

  When it was done, he placed a lifesize balloon kneazel beside her.

  “Tada!”

  She let out a little giggle.

  Slowly, she reached out and touched the kneazle’s ear.

  It twitched at her touch, then began cleaning itself, purring.

  She looked up at him, a question in her eyes.

  “She’s all yours.” He nodded. “But I’d appreciate knowing the name of her new owner.”

  “Olive.”

  Harry’s smile stretched wider.

  “Olive,” he tested the name. “Hmm, yes, a truly lovely name. It fits you.”

  She graced him with a small grin.

  “It’s my gran’s name.”

  “So nice of her to share it with you.”

  “I know you’ve been a very strong girl.” He looked to her mother, then back to her. “But if you’d like, I could take away a little bit of the pain.”

  Smiling as she pet her kneazle, she gave a nod.

  His wand moved in slow spirals above the girl. He wasn’t a proper healer, but he could do this much.

  The girl’s body began to slacken.

  She’d been tense the whole time.

  Small cuts began to close. A blue bruise on her forehead reverted to her natural hue.

  The bite remained.

  “It still hurts.”

  She looked to her mother. To him.

  Confused.

  “Yes. I can’t take all the pain away.” He shook his head, his smile turning bitter. “I’m sorry, Olive. Sorry you have to be strong.”

  The mother pulled Olive close.

  “Thank you. I know ya didn’t have to. Most wouldn’t’a bothered.”

  Harry shook his head slowly.

  “You matter too.”

  He turned.

  The wall of red had dispersed, but Moody remained.

  He was wiping at his face.

  Probably just a bit of dust.