Beta: Cloudy

LOOKIE LOOKIE!! I got my first published fanart for the story!!!! I'm so dang excited. Artwork done by Melo4679_ on Instagram. Please go check out the original post to give it love.

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Returning to Hogwarts was done with little affair. Although as soon as my babeh snakes spotted me they did some double-takes. Daphne and Pansy squealed loudly. Pansy proceeded to then literally kick Draco out of the compartment so Tracey and Millie could squeeze in. I was dumped onto the floor so the girls could play with my hair on the way to Hogwarts. They twisted and tied it into different styles. Daphne temporarily lengthened it with a hair-growing and the girls really went to town on it.

Blaise tried to join in, but there was no room so I had to promise I'd let him play with my hair again after dinner. The girls were giddy with joy over it and their giggles and gleeful squeals brought a smile to my face.

The train ride down was one filled with delight, and the feast was remarkably cheerful. The Slytherins stayed up far too late in the night chatting and playing games that when classes resumed the following day we were tiredly rubbing at our eyes.

The first week back passed by without fuss.

And then I got the Daily Prophet headlines I'd been looking out for.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

Oh goody, I thought joyfully as I read the Daily Prophet.

Voldemort had freed his Death Eaters from Azkaban.

All the pieces were on the board.

Yay, yay, yay, I thought with a big smile on my face. Now I won't have to trouble Booboo by killing his charges!

All I needed now was to prepare a trap for Voldemort. Golly gosh what an exciting time.

Not everyone was as happy about the news as I was, but it couldn't be helped. They would need to deal with a little discomfort until I made my move.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

Every evening after dinner and before bed, I visited Tom. The boy—young man, I supposed, it was kind of hard how to define our ages since we were both mentally so much older than our physical bodies—was always preoccupied with something when I showed up. He loved inventing new spells and rituals, and had refurbished a portion of the basement to practice his spellcasting.

Voldemort, he had told me, was weakened from being freshly reborn. The next time they crossed paths Voldemort would be better prepared, and so should Tom.

When he wasn't working on his lethality, he dabbled in hobbies. He continued the piano, and had a ravenous appetite for mystery novels, but he also branched out to try different things. His current flavor of the week was trying out the cello.

I was very happy for him—hobbies did wonders for mental health, something I knew Tom needed to work on. His disdain for Voldemort bordered on obsessive hatred. Helpful for my plans to defeat Voldemort, but concerning for Tom's self-image.

One evening I hopped out of my chest to find that Tom had taken over the dining room table. The living room had become a cluttered mess of paperwork, floating chalk boards, and odd arcane runes scratched into the floors. Worst of all some furniture had been ripped to shreds.

Yeesh, I thought to myself as I stared at Tom. He was sitting cross-legged on the dining room table, his eyes closed as he concentrated on... something.

"Tom?" I probed. "You okay?"

When he did not respond, I reached out a tentative hand to place on his shoulder. His cool magic curled into mine, and he opened his eyes.

He said, "Apologies, I was doing some tracking."

"I see a tornado hit the living room."

"I... was a little frustrated," he admitted, his cheeks tinged pink. "I'll fix it in a moment."

"Anything I can do?" I asked.

"N—Yes," he said. "Maybe?"

"What do you need?"

He hesitated. "Harry's been doing very well in his Occlumency."

"Uh-huh?"

"That—" Tom shifted his weight uneasily, a disdainful expression crossing over him. "—thing has recently figured out there was a connection between him and Harry."

"There shouldn't be anymore," I said with a narrowed gaze. "Harry's Occlumency has been top-notch. He hasn't had any special nightmares for months. Why is this a recent connection and how do you know about it?"

Tom glanced away from me. "I may have been impersonating the soul fragment in your brother's skull and feeding false memories to it."

"You—I'm sorry, what?" I hadn't meant to shout but what he said completely floored me.

"Well," Tom said testily, "as long as a fragment is active the connection is there. Harry locked his up nicely, and he did it before that thing even realized it was there. I could keep myself hidden as I am an excellent Occlumency user myself, but why miss such an opportunity? It can't keep itself nearly as well hidden as it thinks it can."

"So—what? Vold—" Tom glared at me, and I hastily corrected myself, "—that thing thinks you're Harry?"

"Yes," said Tom.

"Okay," I said slowly. "And it only made this connection recently?"

"Today," said Tom, his lips curled back in a sneer. "After months of probing it, it only noticed today."

"And that's bad?"

"It's depressing," Tom flatly said.

"Ah," I said, as I realized what may have caused my darling's temper tantrum. "Er—were you able to find anything useful?"

"Its mind is a bloody mess," he said reproachfully. "Its thoughts are garbled at best, and incomprehensible most of the time. It behaves more akin to a wild beast with emotional flare ups more than anything. I'll need to keep it properly contained for a prolonged period of time in order to extract the knowledge it has amassed."

"Any ideas on that front?" I asked him, curious.

"Some," he said. "As insane as it is, it's still dangerous. The biggest issue is extracting the soul without further damaging it and finding a way to contain it."

"Why do we need to extract the soul at all?" I asked him. "Can't we just chop off his limbs and cut out his tongue?"

"It can still cast wandless," Tom said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Not as... efficiently and it does not always work, but it's something to keep in mind. As long as it inhabits a body, it can be a threat."

"And we can't put him—it, I mean it, please stop glaring Tom—in an anti-magic chamber because you need magic to extract the information," I said.

"Correct."

I shifted my weight to the balls of my feet as another thought occurred to me. "And you're certain Vo—it thinks you're Harry?"

Tom glowered at me. "Do you think it can outwith me?"

I held up my hands. "Darling, I know you're the cleverest wizard out there, but it's always best to be prepared for different outcomes. You're the one that pointed that out to me—it's why I got a second wand. Do you disagree?"

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Fine." He shifted his weight to lean back. "What did I—? Oh, right. I've been sifting through some of its memories. Would you like to know what I've found?"

"Yes please! Like what's going on with Rookwood," I said, hopping onto the table to sit next to Tom.

"Him? Last year Rookwood was doing research into the Department of Mysteries. This year he's focused on developing spells for it to use in its pathetic state. I found out what the weapon was," casually said Tom, although his lips curled back into a sneer at the word weapon. "The weapon as described by the Order turned out to be a couple of prophecies. Disappointing, but I should have known given how far its mind has already degraded. Of course it'd believe in bullshit."

I blinked. "I'm sorry, back up. Couple?"

"Yes. Couple, as in two," dismissed Tom, exasperated by the (perceived) sheer stupidity of his counterpart. "It's obsessed with finding them. I assume one for you and the other for Harry. Certainly explains why it's adamant about murdering you two."

"I know about Harry's prophecy," I said slowly, "but you said two. I know for a fact that there was originally only one prophecy made."

"Yes. Then Rookwood found another during his investigation," explained Tom. "After he escaped Azkaban, he went to Sweden for some medical treatment, then returned to find that decaying carcass. Rookwood was an Unspeakable and that stupid thing sent Rookwood to begin investigating the Department of Mysteries. It found out about the second prophecy shortly after the tournament concluded and so it became determined to obtain both of them."

"Wow," I whispered.

Tom peered at me. "I know that look. You want to know what it is."

"I do. I so do."

Tom smiled charmingly. "That would involve breaking into the Department of Mysteries, my dear."

"Yeah," I sighed dreamily. "What a heist."

Tom turned to face me entirely, his irritation draining away the longer he looked at me. His eyes danced with mischief and malice. In the warmest, sweetest, tempting voice he purred, "Rosie... my dear..."

Oh he so wants something.

But I was always down for shenanigans so I brightly asked, "What do you want?"

He held out a hand for me, his smile curled into something vicious. "Care to be a part of one of my schemes?"

I accepted his hand. "Hell yes. What do you have in mind?"

"We'll steal the prophecies then when we're prepared to contain that walking corpse I'll use the prophecies as bait and feed it false memories to lead it to our trap," said Tom.

I nodded, impressed by what it would entail. It would require Tom to pull off one hell of a lie to Voldemort. Not only would he have to perfectly build false memories, but he'd have to seamlessly send them to Voldemort in such a way that Voldemort was convinced it'd come from Harry. I didn't think I could ever do such a thing, let alone have the confidence to plan for it.

Given how insane Voldemort was, Tom's plan wasn't even a guarantee—

As if sensing my thoughts, Tom added, "Even if it doesn't come itself and only sends Death Eaters, that'd be fewer Death Eaters in its army."

"Very true," I agreed with a smile. "All right. I'll leave the planning to you, then. Uh, please try not to schedule it during my O.W.L.s."

Tom inclined his head. "If you insist."

"I'm going to need my beauty sleep to beat your scores."

Tom shook his head in amusement. "You can't beat what was already perfect."

"Watch me."

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

January passed by in a blur of homework and ritual drafts. February was warm, wet, and most importantly: had a full moon that landed on a weekend.

Which meant that on February 4th (a Sunday) I could finally try out my ritual to create a worgen.

I originally believed to perfect the lycanthrope curse (operating off the belief it was a botched dark ritual using fossils of canis dirus) I would need more fossils of the dire wolf. But once I truly began to study rituals and Dark magic I realized that was a misconception. I had already done considerable work in completing the curse through my potions work, now I had to build on that.

Once I had a decent grasp of the subjects, the rest came slowly. My math wasn't on par with Tom's, but it was enough for me to get my point across. Tom was gracious enough to correct me in some areas and help steer my thought processes when I threatened to spiral down a wrong path.

Rituals.

Rituals was a type of magic that used ingredients to create exceptionally powerful spells. Tye type of spells that one wizard and one wand simply could not perform. Oddly, creating and using rituals was kind of like baking a cake. The runes were the cake pan, the ingredients the—er—ingredients, and the caster the chef. With the right cake pan one could form all sorts of neat designs that would hold the batter until baked, and the ingredients changed everything about the cake. The chef watched over the cake to make sure it didn't over cook or come out with a soggy bottom.

Of course there were some exceptions and it wasn't so cut and dry, but the process reminded me an awful lot like baking. More so than Potions. Potions was chemistry written by a poet; ritual crafting was baking with extremely dangerous ingredients and you had a solid chance of the oven exploding in your face even if everything was done correctly.

I had believed I would need a lot more canis dirus fossils than whatever the original ritual called for, but no. The canis dirus fossil was like the baking soda in this cake—really did not need to add more than what the original recipes calls for. Unless you wanted an exploding cake.

In my case, it'd be an exploding ritual that'd probably kill me or worse.

One piece was all I needed, and a piece was easily obtained. The size did not even matter. I actually bought the skull of a canis dirus from a retiring professor in Johannesburg. Nice fella. Felt nice to not have to steal from such a stand-up person and instead contribute to his retirement plans.

I did not know what the original ritual was, or what else they used, because it did not matter.

I would be overwriting the magic with my own.

February 3rd—the day before the true full moon—I spent my entire Saturday prepping my basement for the ritual. It took me hours to perfectly draw the runes—Tom looked them over—and several more hours to prepare the ingredients.

But come February 4th it was finally time.

Unfortunately an hour before Fenrir showed up at my home Tom's body said nope and promptly dissolved into ash. His soul returned to me.

I could feel him pout. He was clearly unhappy that his body expired before his calculations. I couldn't resist laughing as I swept up his ashes.

"Hahahaha. Your pouting is adorable."

"It is not."

"I assure you: it is."

Tom sighed. "At least we'll be able to use the binder next time."

"I love you, but you're gonna have to wait until tomorrow night for a new body."

"Understandable."

In the late afternoon Fenrir nervously entered the basement, eyeing the ritual apprehensively. He swallowed roughly, "That looks... big."

It was big. It took up my entire basement floor. I'd have to levitate Fenrir into the center of the ritual so he wouldn't accidentally smear any of the magical chalk. The grizzled werewolf scratched at his chin as he continued to stare at the arcane runes.

"It is," I agreed. "You can still back out."

"No... this is i', right?" he asked. "E'erything yeh've done... this is it."

"It should be," I said. "When you're ready, we'll get started."

Fenrir licked his lips. "It'll—it'll ta'e—er—'ow long?"

"Several hours," I patiently explained, offering Fenrir a supportive smile. "I'll knock you out before we start so you shouldn't feel any pain."

"Right, right..."

"We can't start any later than sundown. So... let me know whenever you're ready," I said.

"Let's do it," said Fenrir. "I'm ready."

I offered Fenrir a moderate sleeping potion, to which he chugged with a grimace. Before his unconscious body fell to the floor, I caught him with a Wingardium Leviosa and levitated him to the center of the ritual. I sat down on the outskirts, placing both of my palms flat on the floor.

"Incipio," I chanted, the runes coming to life.

"Good luck," said Tom. "Although you won't need it."

I smiled.

(≖‿‿≖)ノ⌒●~*

Fenrir Greyback opened his eyes to a dimly lit basement. He sat up sharply, instantly alert. "Rosie?"

"'M here," I responded tiredly.

Every inch of my body ached in a way that was eerily similar to the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse. I was drained; mentally, physically, and magically. Weakness set into my limbs making it difficult to even form a fist, let alone stand up. The moment the ritual was completed, I had collapsed face down onto the floor. I still laid on my belly, too exhausted to do anything but turn my head.

Fenrir hesitantly stood up, patting at himself. "Er—I feel—er—you 'kay?"

"M'fine, howwwdoyoufeel?" I asked, unintentionally slurring my words. Even my tongue was tired! Ugh.

Fenrir's brow was furrowed as he considered my question. "F-Fine? Did it—er—work?"

"I dunno. Let'sssssss find out?" I yawned, then winced. "Sorry."

Fenrir grinned. "Want a lift?"

"Please..."

The runes had disappeared throughout the ritual, leaving not a single trace of chalk on the floor. The werewolf moved quickly to my side, then bent down and carefully picked me up.

"Don' feel wea' 'least," observed Fenrir. "Usually kin'a tired 'fore the moon comes up."

I mumbled something along the lines of that's nice but I slurred it so much it came out as snice.

We headed up the steps. The basement's door was in the kitchen. As soon as we exited the basement, Fenrir's brow furrowed again. He stared intently at the windows, a hard frown on his face as he realized that it was dark outside. He shifted his hold on me in his arms, wordlessly heading out the front door.

When we stepped out, Fenrir Greyback looked up at the full moon.

He gaped. "I ain't—I ain't transformin'!"

"Not unless you wanna," I mumbled tiredly.

"How—how—do I?"

"I've no idea," I told him. "It's'pposed to be all natural."

Fenrir's expression twisted as he thought. "Natural? Ehh... I feel... ehhh..."

Gently, he sat me down on the step in front of my door. He helped prop me up so I could lean against my front door, then once certain I wasn't going to fall over he took a few steps back. He stared hard at his hands, clenching then relaxing them. He did that for a couple of minutes, marveling at how they stayed human under the moonlight.

Fenrir looked back up at the full moon—it was midnight judging by the position—and let out a long, steady breath. "Okay..."

He flexed his entire body and in between one second and the next he had transformed. Long, thick, silver fur sprouted out of his skin as he simultaneously grew in size and stature.

The original lycanthrope curse caused a temporary mutation of cells. The human body fused with dire wolf DNA to create an odd amalgamation of man and wolf. Werewolves retained a lot of their human features—simply brushed over with a wolfish tone. They did not gain much muscle so they normally remained at the same height and body type as their human form.

That was not the case with this transformation.

Fenrir stood well over seven feet tall, his shoulders noticeably broader, and limbs wrapped heavily in magically conjured thick muscle. His clawed hand was bigger than my face, and his tail lazily swayed side to side. The change from an average sized man to a