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The taste wouldn't leave his mouth.
Harry had tried spitting three times already, but the coppery tang of blood still coated his tongue, thick and wrong. His enhanced senses meant he could taste every component—the iron, the salt.
He was going to be sick again.
"Easy," Hermione murmured beside him, her hand finding his elbow. The touch grounded him, pulled him back from the edge of another panic spiral. "Just breathe. In and out."
Harry focused on the physical sensation of her fingers through his sleeve—the too-large Ministry robes he'd stolen from some poor unconscious official. He couldn't remember doing that, couldn't remember changing out of his blood-soaked clothes.
His hands were clean too. Someone must have cleaned them. Him? Hermione? He didn't know.
They walked in silence through what remained of the campsite.
The path was chaos. Overturned tents, scorch marks on the grass, debris scattered everywhere. Ministry officials in their distinctive robes moved between the wreckage, wands out, faces grim. Harry's nose picked up the acrid smell of burnt canvas and wood, underneath it the sharper scent of healing potions being administered, and beneath that...
Blood. So much blood.
Not all of it human. Some of it had that strange, sweet-rotten smell of magical creature blood. But most of it was human, and Harry's stomach clenched as his wolf-enhanced senses cataloged each distinct scent signature. Twelve different people bleeding. No, thirteen. Fourteen.
He forced himself to breathe through his mouth, but that was worse because then he could taste it on the air.
"What the bloody hell made those?" Ron's voice cut through Harry's sensory overload.
Harry blinked, focusing on where Ron was pointing. The ground ahead was torn up, great furrows in the earth like something massive had dragged claws through the ground. But these weren't normal claw marks—each one was easily two feet long and dug several inches deep.
"Dunno," Fred said quietly. His usual joking tone was completely absent. "But whatever it was, it was huge."
George nodded. "And heavy. Look at how deep those impressions are."
"Keep moving," Mr. Weasley said from the front of their group. "We need to get back to our site."
They walked past a cluster of injured wizards being tended by Healers in lime-green robes. One witch was sobbing, her face covered in burns. A wizard sat with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. A small child clung to her mother, both of them staring with wide eyes full of fear.
Harry's enhanced hearing picked up fragments of conversation:
"—never seen anything like it—"
"—the Dark Mark, can you believe—"
"—said it was thirty feet tall—"
"—Death Eaters, after all this time—"
But nobody looked at Harry. Nobody pointed. Nobody accused. Whatever they were talking about, whatever had terrified them, it wasn't him. They didn't know what he'd done.
The Weasleys knew. Fred, George, Ron, Hermione, Ginny—they'd all been there when he'd confessed. But they were the only ones.
The Death Eater's body was somewhere back there in the darkness, throat torn out, and Harry was walking away from it wearing stolen robes with the man's blood still coating his tongue.
Ginny's hand found his other arm, mirroring Hermione's grip. The double anchor helped. Harry focused on the feeling of their fingers, their warmth, the reminder that he was still Harry and not just a monster in human skin.
"Harry."
He looked up. Ron was watching him with something that might have been concern or might have been fear.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.
The question was so absurd that Harry almost laughed. Alright? He'd just killed a man with his teeth. He could still taste the blood, still feel the wet tearing sensation as flesh gave way, still hear that gurgling scream that had been cut off so abruptly when he'd severed the artery.
"Fine," Harry heard himself say. The word came out flat, emotionless.
Ron flinched slightly but nodded, turning back to face forward. He didn't believe Harry—of course he didn't—but he was Ron, which meant he wouldn't push. Not yet.
They passed more devastation. A tent that had been sliced clean in half, the edges smooth like they'd been cut with a giant blade. Claw marks on a tree trunk that went up at least fifteen feet. A crater in the ground that looked like something enormous had landed with tremendous force.
"Oi, is that—" George started.
"Don't," Fred cut him off sharply. "Just keep walking."
But Harry had already seen it: a dark stain on the grass. Someone had died there.
How many? How many had died tonight?
At least two, his mind supplied helpfully. One Death Eater killed by you. One someone else.
Unless there were more bodies he couldn't see or smell from this distance. Unless—
"Harry." Hermione's voice was gentle but firm. "Stop. You're spiraling."
He was. He could feel it happening—his thoughts circling down and down into darker and darker places. The blood on his tongue. The Death Eater's terrified eyes in that split second before Harry's jaws had closed around his throat. The way the body had gone limp so quickly.
Had he enjoyed it? In that moment, with his wolf side fully ascendant, had he felt satisfaction?
Yes.
The answer made Harry's stomach clench. Yes, he had. For that one terrible instant, he'd felt triumph, felt right, felt like a predator successfully defending his territory.
And then he'd remembered he was human, and the horror had hit him.
"Seamus! Dean!"
Ron's shout pulled Harry out of his thoughts. Two familiar figures were standing near a partially collapsed tent, looking shaken but uninjured. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, both still in their pajamas, both pale and wide-eyed.
"You guys alright?" Ron called as they approached.
"Yeah, we're—" Seamus's voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "We're okay. Me mam grabbed us and got us out quick. You?"
"Fine," George said before anyone else could answer. "All fine. Just getting back to our site."
"Did you see it?" Dean asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "The thing?"
Harry's attention sharpened. "Thing?"
"The creature," Seamus said. He was shaking slightly. "It came right through here. Must've been thirty feet tall, maybe more. All covered in fur and it looked like a giant wolf with antlers."
"Had these huge claws," Dean added, gesturing with his hands. "And it was making this sound, like—like screaming, but from everywhere at once. Me mam says it wasn't real, says it was some kind of dark magic making us see things, but—"
"It was real," Seamus interrupted. "I saw what it did to those Death Eaters. Just—" He made a crushing motion with his fist. "Gone. Just gone."
"The Ministry's saying it was mass hallucination," Dean said. "Dark magic from the Death Eaters making people see things that weren't there. But the claw marks are real. The footprints are real."
"We should go," Mr. Weasley said firmly. "Boys, I'm glad you're safe. Get back to your families."
They said quick goodbyes, and Harry's group continued toward their campsite. But Harry could hear Seamus and Dean talking as they walked away:
"—did you see Potter? He looked—"
"—probably in shock like everyone else—"
"—lucky none of us got killed—"
The walk seemed to take forever and no time at all. Harry's sense of time was broken, his enhanced perceptions making seconds stretch into minutes or compressing entire minutes into blinks. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on not collapsing, on not screaming.
More destroyed tents. More injured people. More Ministry officials barking orders and casting spells. More whispered conversations about the creature, about Death Eaters, about the Dark Mark hanging in the sky like a malevolent star.
They reached their campsite finally, and Mr. Weasley turned to face Harry.
"Harry," Mr. Weasley said gently. "Are you hurt?"
Yes, Harry wanted to say. But not in any way you can heal.
"No, sir," Harry said instead. "I'm fine."
Mr. Weasley's eyes searched his face, and Harry had the uncomfortable sense that the man could see right through him. But all Mr. Weasley said was, "Good. That's good." He turned to address the whole group. "We're leaving. Emergency Portkey in twenty minutes. Ministry's evacuating all the families."
"What about the people who are hurt?" Hermione asked. "Shouldn't we help—"
"The Healers have it under control," Mr. Weasley said firmly. "Our priority now is getting everyone to safety. Pack only the essentials. We'll come back for the rest later if we need to."
The group moved mechanically to comply, entering the tent that still smelled like cats and old fabric. Harry's enhanced senses cataloged every detail—the mustiness of the borrowed furniture, the faint scent of everyone who'd slept here tonight, the lingering smell of the dinner they'd eaten that felt like years ago instead of hours.
And underneath it all, so faint that maybe only Harry could detect it: the smell of blood and death that clung to him like a second skin.
He'd scrubbed his hands. Someone had cleaned them. But he could still smell it.
He wondered if he'd ever stop smelling it.
"Harry." Ginny was beside him, her voice low. "Sit down before you fall down."
He hadn't realized he was swaying. His legs felt disconnected from his body, operating on autopilot. Ginny guided him to one of the mismatched chairs, and he collapsed into it, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was.
Around him, the Weasleys packed. Mrs. Weasley must have already packed earlier—the tent was mostly empty of their belongings. Fred and George moved in sync, gathering the few remaining items. Ron shoved things randomly into his bag. Percy folded clothes despite the circumstances.
Hermione and Ginny stayed near Harry, forming a protective barrier between him and everyone else. Harry was grateful for it. He didn't think he could handle conversation right now. Didn't think he could pretend to be human when he felt so much like a wolf in human clothing.
"The Ministry's got three dozen officials combing the grounds," Bill's voice drifted in from outside the tent. He must have arrived while Harry was dissociating. "They've found four bodies so far. Two Death Eaters, one Muggle, one wizard."
"Four bodies," Charlie repeated, his voice grim. "Could've been so much worse."
"Could've been better if they'd had proper security," Bill countered. "This should never have happened."
Their voices faded as they moved away, but Harry's enhanced hearing could still track them. Could still hear every word:
"—one of the Death Eaters had his throat torn out—"
"—some kind of animal attack—"
"—or the creature people are talking about—"
"—massive claw marks everywhere—"
"—Ministry's covering something up—"
Harry's hands clenched in his lap. They thought it was the creature. They thought whatever had killed that Death Eater was the same thing that had left those enormous footprints.
Harry wasn't sure how to feel about it. He had killed the man, but he knew he had no other choice. He had protected that muggle; he had done the right thing; he had done the right THING. That man was no man at all.
Man like him killed your parents, do they really deserve to live? A voice echoed in his mind and Harry did not give an answer.
"Time to go," Mr. Weasley announced, ducking back into the tent. "Everyone grab your things. The Portkey's been moved up—we leave in five minutes."
The group filed out, and Harry forced himself to stand, to walk, to follow. The pre-dawn air was cold against his skin, but he barely felt it. Everything felt distant and unreal, like he was watching himself from outside his body.
They walked to a designated Portkey point, joining other shell-shocked families.
A Ministry official thrust an old boot toward them. "Everyone touch it. Departure in thirty seconds."
Harry reached out mechanically, his finger barely making contact with the cracked leather. Around him, the others did the same. He could feel Hermione on one side, Ginny on the other.
The hook caught behind his navel, and the world dissolved into spinning colors and howling wind. Harry's enhanced senses made the journey even more disorienting than usual.
When they landed, Harry's legs gave out. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring but barely registering through the fog of exhaustion and trauma. Strong hands grabbed his arms, pulling him upright. Bill on one side, Charlie on the other.
"Easy there," Charlie murmured. "We've got you."
Harry blinked, trying to focus. They were in the field near the Burrow. The familiar outline of the crooked house was visible against the lightening sky. Dawn was breaking, painting everything in shades of pink and gold.
It should have been beautiful. Instead, it just reminded Harry of blood.
"Inside," Mr. Weasley was saying. "Everyone inside. Molly will have breakfast ready."
The kitchen door opened before they reached it, and Mrs. Weasley burst out, her face streaked with tears.
"Oh thank goodness," she sobbed, pulling Ron into a crushing hug. Then Fred. Then George. Working her way through each of her children, checking them over with shaking hands. "When we heard the news—when they said Death Eaters—I thought—"
"We're fine, Mum," Ron said, though his voice wavered. "We're all fine."
Mrs. Weasley's eyes found Harry, and something in her expression shifted.
"Harry, dear," she said, her voice gentling. "Come inside. You look exhausted."
He was. He was so tired that standing upright felt like an impossible achievement. His bones ached. His skin felt too tight. His enhanced senses were starting to overload again, picking up too much, processing too much.
The taste of blood still coated his tongue.
Harry let himself be herded inside, into the warm, cluttered kitchen that smelled like home and safety. He sank into a chair at the table, barely registering the conversations happening around him.
They were safe. They were home.
.
.
The kitchen at the Burrow had never felt so oppressively bright.
Harry sat at the worn wooden table, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that Mrs. Weasley had pressed into them the moment they'd arrived. He hadn't taken a single sip. The steam rising from the surface carried scents of chamomile, honey, and a hint of valerian root for calming—but the thought of putting anything in his mouth made his stomach clench.
He could still taste blood.
"—absolutely shameful," Mrs. Weasley was saying, her voice shrill with hysteria. "The Ministry knew there would be thousands of people there, families with children, and they couldn't provide adequate security? What were they thinking?"
"They weren't, Mum," Bill said quietly. He was leaning against the counter. "They thought the war was over. They got complacent."
"Well, it's clearly not over, is it?" Mrs. Weasley snapped, though her anger seemed directed at the world in general rather than Bill specifically. "Death Eaters attacking innocent people, torturing Muggles—and that Mark in the sky—" Her voice broke. "I thought we were past this. I thought our children would be safe."
Charlie reached over and squeezed his mother's shoulder. "They are safe, Mum. They're all here. They're all fine."
Harry's fingers tightened on the mug. Fine. That word again. He was getting really tired of hearing it.
Across the table, Ron was picking at a piece of toast without actually eating any of it. Fred and George sat in uncharacteristic silence, both pale and subdued. Percy had launched into a lengthy explanation of Ministry emergency protocols that no one was listening to.
Hermione sat to Harry's right. Ginny was on his left. Both of them were watching him.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the tea, watching the steam curl and dissipate. If he looked at anyone, they might ask questions. If they asked questions, he might have to answer. If he had to answer, he might start talking about the taste of blood and the sound of a man choking on his own torn throat.
"The Prophet's already running special editions," Percy was saying, gesturing with his fork. "The Minister's office has assured the public that this was an isolated incident carried out by a small group of rogue Dark Wizards who will be apprehended shortly. The situation is well in hand."
"Rogue Dark Wizards," Arthur repeated slowly. He was sitting at the head of the table, looking more exhausted than Harry had ever seen him. "Is that what they're calling terrorists now?"
"Dad—"
"And what about the reports of some kind of creature?" Arthur continued, his voice harder than usual. "Multiple witnesses describing something massive, something that killed several Death Eaters. Is that also 'well in hand'?"
Percy shifted uncomfortably. "The Ministry's official statement is that those reports are the result of mass hysteria and dark magic-induced hallucinations. There's no evidence of any such creature."
"Except for the footprints," Fred said quietly. "And the claw marks. And the crushed Death Eaters."
"Yeah, those seemed pretty real to me," George added.
"The investigation is ongoing," Percy said stiffly. "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation—"
"There's always a reasonable explanation with the Ministry, isn't there?" Bill interjected. "Even when the explanation is complete rubbish."
"Now see here—"
"Boys," Mrs. Weasley said sharply. "Enough. We've all been through a terrible ordeal tonight. This isn't the time for arguing."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the kitchen. Harry's enhanced hearing picked up the sound of his own heartbeat, too fast, too loud. He could hear everyone's breathing, could smell the anxiety and fear radiating from the Weasley family like a physical presence.
"Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley said gently, and Harry flinched at being addressed directly. "You haven't touched your tea. Are you feeling alright? You're not hurt, are you?"
"I'm fine," Harry said automatically.
Mrs. Weasley's eyes narrowed with maternal suspicion. "You don't look fine. You're pale as a ghost. When's the last time you ate?"
Harry tried to remember. Dinner? That felt like years ago. "I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat something," Mrs. Weasley insisted, already rising to her feet. "You must be exhausted. Let me make you some eggs—"
"Molly," Arthur said quietly, and something in his tone made his wife pause. "Let the boy be."
Their eyes met across the kitchen, and some wordless communication passed between them. Mrs. Weasley's expression shifted from insistent concern to something softer, sadder. Understanding.
She knew. Or at least, she suspected something.
"Right," Mrs. Weasley said, her voice gentling. "Well, you should all try to get some sleep. It's barely six in the morning, and I doubt any of you slept properly at that campsite even before—" She cut herself off. "Just go on up to bed. We can talk more later."
"But it's morning," Ron protested weakly. "Shouldn't we—"
"Bed," Mrs. Weasley said firmly. "All of you. Now."
Nobody argued. They rose mechanically from the table like robots. Harry stood with them, his legs feeling disconnected from his body, operating on some kind of autopilot he didn't fully control.
"Harry."
He turned to find Bill watching him. The eldest Weasley had seen combat, had faced dark magic and dangerous creatures in his work as a curse-breaker.
"If you need to talk," Bill said quietly, "about anything that happened tonight. My door's open."
Harry nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak. Bill's eyes searched his face for another moment, then he nodded and let him go.
The stairs creaked under Harry's feet as he climbed to the top floor where Ron's room was. Each step required conscious effort. His body felt heavy, weighed down by more than just exhaustion. The stolen Ministry robes hung loose on his frame, the sleeves falling past his hands, the hem dragging on the floor.
He wondered whose robes they were. Wondered if that person was alive or dead. Wondered if they'd been one of the officials trying to stop the Death Eaters or just an innocent bystander caught in the chaos.
Wondered if he cared.
That last thought scared him. The fact that he could wonder about someone's life or death with such detachment, such emptiness. Was this what killing did to you? Did it hollow you out, make you numb?
Or was it just the wolf in him, the predator that didn't see people as people but as threats or prey or pack?
Ron's bedroom door loomed ahead of him. Behind it would be the familiar orange walls, the Chudley Cannons posters, the comfortable mundanity of a space that had become as much home to Harry as anywhere he'd ever lived.
But walking into that room meant facing Ron. Meant pretending to be normal. Meant lying in a bed and closing his eyes and trying not to see a Death Eater's face every time he did.
Harry's hand reached for the doorknob without conscious decision. The metal was cool against his palm.
He opened the door.
Ron was already inside, sitting on his bed and staring at nothing. He looked up when Harry entered, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Mate," Ron said finally, his voice rough. "That was—"
"Don't," Harry cut him off. "Please. I can't—I don't want to talk about it."
Ron's mouth closed. He nodded slowly, understanding even if he didn't understand. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."
Harry moved to his own bed—the camp bed they'd set up for him weeks ago when he'd first arrived at the Burrow. It felt like a lifetime ago now. He sat on the edge, the springs creaking under his weight.
"I'm gonna try to sleep," Ron said after another moment of awkward silence. "You should too. You look like death warmed over."
Death. Right. Harry had seen plenty of that tonight.
"Yeah," Harry said. "Sleep. Good idea."
Ron kicked off his shoes and crawled under his covers without bothering to change out of his clothes. Within minutes, his breathing had evened out into the familiar pattern of sleep.
Harry sat on his bed and stared at the wall.
He should change out of these robes. Should put on his own clothes, try to reclaim some sense of normalcy. But the thought of moving seemed impossible. Everything seemed impossible.
So he just sat there as pale morning light crept through the window, painting the room in shades of gray and gold. Outside, birds were singing their dawn chorus. Inside, Harry could hear the old house settling, creaking and groaning in its comfortable way.
Normal sounds. Normal morning.
Except Harry Potter had killed a man, and nothing would ever be normal again.
.
.
The water was scalding, hot enough to turn Harry's skin pink and make steam fill the cramped bathroom until he could barely see the walls. He didn't turn it down. The heat felt like punishment, like penance, like maybe if he scrubbed hard enough he could wash away what he'd done.
It wasn't working.
Harry stood under the spray, his hands moving mechanically over his skin for the third time. Or was it the fourth? He'd lost count. The Ministry robes lay in a crumpled heap on the floor where he'd stripped them off with shaking hands. His own clothes from before—wherever they'd ended up—were probably still soaked with blood.
A Death Eater's blood.
Harry's stomach lurched. He braced one hand against the slick tile wall, breathing hard through his nose as nausea rolled through him.
The taste was still there. Faint now, but persistent, like his enhanced senses had memorized every molecular detail of blood and death and wouldn't let him forget. He'd brushed his teeth twice already. It hadn't helped.
Nothing helped.
Steam swirled around him, thick and suffocating. Harry inhaled it, let it burn his lungs, welcomed the discomfort.
His hands moved over his arms, his chest, scrubbing at skin that his eyes told him was clean but his nose insisted otherwise. There had to be traces left. Had to be. He could smell it, that distinctive iron-salt scent of human blood, lurking in his pores, in his nail beds, in the whorls of his fingerprints.
The Death Eater had bled so much.
Harry's breathing hitched. He pressed his forehead against the tile, letting the cold stone ground him even as scalding water pounded against his shoulders.
He remembered—God, he remembered everything with perfect, horrible clarity. The way his enhanced vision had made every detail sharp even in the darkness. The Death Eater's eyes widening behind his mask as Harry lunged. The brief, futile struggle before Harry's strength had overwhelmed him.
And then—
Harry's jaws closing around flesh. The resistance, then the give. The hot rush of arterial blood flooding his mouth. The man's scream cutting off into that wet, horrible gurgle.
The taste.
Harry turned and vomited, the meager contents of his stomach—nothing but bile and tea—splashing onto the shower floor. He watched it swirl down the drain with the water, wishing he could wash away memories as easily.
"When blood scents the air, your control will be tested."
Mikhail's words echoed in Harry's mind, the half-vampire's warning taking on new, terrible meaning. He'd been right. The moment Harry had smelled that Muggle family's blood, smelled the Death Eater's violent intent, something in him had snapped.
The wolf had taken over.
Or had it? That was the question that had been gnawing at Harry since the moment clarity had returned. Had the wolf made him kill, or had Harry made that choice and the wolf had just given him the tools?
Harry didn't know. Couldn't separate his own will from the primal drive that had surged up from wherever his lycanthropy lived inside him. In that moment, they'd been one—Harry Potter and the wolf, fused into a single lethal entity.
And that entity had enjoyed the kill.
That was the worst part. Not the act itself—Harry could almost rationalize that, could tell himself it had been self-defense, protection, necessary violence. But he couldn't rationalize the split-second of satisfaction he'd felt, the triumph as his prey went limp in his jaws.
Harry slid down to sit in the tub, water streaming over him as he pulled his knees to his chest. The position was cramped, uncomfortable, but he didn't care. His enhanced senses registered the temperature change as the water began cooling—the Burrow's aging water heater couldn't maintain this heat forever—but he didn't move to turn it off.
He stared at his hands, water sluicing over pale skin that looked perfectly normal. No claws. No hair. No visible sign of the monster lurking beneath.
Would he end up like those Wild Werewolves that Lupin had told him about, seeing people as prey, reveling in violence?
The thought made Harry's skin crawl with a revulsion so intense it was almost physical. He'd rather die than become that.
But what if he didn't get a choice? What if the wolf was already stronger than him, just waiting for the next opportunity to take control?
Harry's breath came faster, panic rising in his chest. The bathroom walls felt like they were closing in, the steam suffocating. His enhanced hearing picked up every sound—water rushing through the pipes, someone moving around downstairs, his own heart hammering too fast, too loud.
Too much. Everything was too much.
He reached up with a shaking hand and twisted the tap off. The sudden silence was almost as overwhelming as the noise had been.
Water dripped from his hair, ran down his face. Harry sat in the cooling puddle at the bottom of the tub and tried to remember how to breathe like a human instead of a panicking animal.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Focus on the physical sensation. Ground yourself in your body.
The techniques Lupin had sent him in those letters over the summer, methods for managing sensory overload and emotional dysregulation. They helped. A little.
Slowly, incrementally, Harry's breathing evened out. The panic receded to a manageable level.
He stood on shaking legs and grabbed a towel, drying himselfy. His reflection stared back at him from the fogged mirror above the sink, distorted and ghostly. Harry wiped a hand across the glass, clearing a space.
The face looking back at him was his own. Wet black hair plastered to his face. Pale skin. Green eyes. Not red. Not yellow. Just green.
Human eyes.
"You're not that," Harry whispered to his reflection. His voice sounded hollow in the small bathroom. "You're not. You did what you had to do. It was him or that witch. Him or you."
The reflection didn't look convinced.
Harry turned away from the mirror before he could start seeing Death Eater's eyes staring back at him. He pulled on clean clothes from the small pile he kept in the bathroom—soft cotton that smelled like Mrs. Weasley's lavender soap, comforting and normal.
The clock on the wall read 6:47 AM.
Harry stood in the bathroom, clean and dressed and still feeling filthy, and wondered what he was supposed to do next.
How did you go on living after something like this? How did you sit down to breakfast and pass the marmalade and discuss the weather when you'd killed someone less than a day ago?
Harry didn't have answers to any of those questions.
So he just stood there, staring at the closed door, trying to find the courage to open it and face whatever came next.
.
.
The soft knock on Ron's bedroom door made Harry's head snap up from where he'd been staring at his hands for the past twenty minutes.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice, barely above a whisper. "Can we come in?"
He should say no. Should tell them he needed to be alone. Should protect them from the thing he'd become.
"Yeah," Harry heard himself say instead.
The door opened slowly, and Hermione and Ginny slipped inside, closing it carefully behind them.
Harry sat on his bed, still damp from the shower, wearing clean clothes.
Hermione and Ginny crossed the room without speaking, sitting on either side of him on the narrow bed.
"You don't have to talk," Hermione said quietly. "We just wanted you to know you're not alone."
But Harry did have to talk. The words were building up inside him like pressure behind a dam, and if he didn't let them out, they'd burst free in ways he couldn't control.
"I killed him," Harry said flatly. "The Death Eater. I didn't use magic. I used my hands. My claws. And then—" His throat tried to close around the words, but he forced them out. "I used my teeth. I bit out his throat. Like an animal."
Beside him, Hermione drew in a sharp breath. But when Harry glanced at her, he didn't see horror on her face. Just pain. Sympathy.
"Harry—" she started.
"I tasted his blood," Harry continued, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. "I can still taste it. I've brushed my teeth, I've scrubbed my mouth, but it's still there. The copper taste. The salt. The—" He swallowed hard. "The way it felt when it hit my tongue hot and thick and wrong."
Ginny's hand found his, threading their fingers together. Her palm was warm and dry against his, which was still slightly damp from the shower.
"I keep seeing his face," Harry said. "The terror in his eyes when he realized what I was going to do. And I can't—I don't know if the wolf made me do it or if that was me. I don't know where Harry ends and the monster begins anymore."
"You're not a monster," Ginny said firmly.
"I killed someone."
"You protected someone," Ginny countered. "That Death Eater was about to curse that witch. You saved her life."
"By ending his," Harry said bitterly. "That doesn't make me a hero, Ginny. That makes me a killer."
"It makes you someone who did what had to be done," Hermione interjected gently. "Harry, you were in an impossible situation. Fight or flight. And you fought."
"I didn't have to kill him," Harry insisted. "I could have just—I could have disarmed him, knocked him out—"
"Could you?" Hermione asked. "Really? In that moment, with the Death Eater attacking, with your instincts screaming at you, with your lycanthropy heightened from seeing violence—could you have held back?"
Harry opened his mouth to say yes, then closed it again. Because the honest answer was no. In that moment, with the wolf surging up inside him, with the scent of blood and fear thick in the air, with his enhanced senses showing him every detail of the threat—holding back hadn't even occurred to him.
"I wanted to do it," Harry whispered, and this was the confession that cut deepest. "In that moment, I wanted to kill him. The wolf wanted it, and I—I didn't fight it. I let it happen. And for one second, when he stopped struggling, I felt—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Satisfaction," Ginny finished for him. "Relief. Victory."
Harry's head snapped toward her. "How did you—"
"Because I've felt it too," Ginny said quietly.
"What?"
Ginny took a deep breath, her fingers tightening around Harry's. "Do you remember my first year?" she asked. "What happened to me?"
"The diary," Harry said immediately. "Tom Riddle possessed you, made you open the Chamber of Secrets."
"Made me release the Basilisk," Ginny corrected softly. "Made me write threatening messages on walls. Made me attack students." She paused, and when she continued, her voice was barely audible. "Made me try to kill them."
Harry stared at her. He had known for almost two years now, but he had never thought to ask her about it, to talk to her, it was something he and everyone else had tried to forget, thinking it would be better for Ginny if they never brought it up. But he'd never really thought about what it must have been like for her. To be used like that. To have her body turned into a weapon against her will.
"I didn't know what was happening at first," Ginny continued. "I'd wake up with no memory of hours passing. And then, toward the end, I started to remember fragments. Feeling the Basilisk respond to my will. Feeling the power of controlling something so deadly."
Her voice dropped even lower. "And sometimes, in the worst nightmares, I remember enjoying it. Just for an instant. Before the horror set in. That feeling of being powerful instead of helpless. Of being feared instead of afraid."
Harry's throat felt tight. "Ginny..."
"It wasn't really me," Ginny said. "I know that. Tom Riddle was controlling me, using me like a puppet. But it was still my hands, my voice, my body doing those things. And afterward, I kept thinking—what if part of me had wanted it? What if there was something dark in me that Riddle had been able to use because it was already there?"
"There isn't," Hermione said firmly. "Ginny, you were eleven years old and being possessed by a fragment of the most evil wizard in history. Nothing that happened was your fault."
"I know that now," Ginny said. "Took a lot of time with Madam Pomfrey and a mind healer to really believe it. But the point is—" She turned to look at Harry directly. "Feeling satisfaction in that moment doesn't make you evil, Harry. It makes you someone who was in a life-or-death situation and survived it. Your instincts were doing exactly what instincts are supposed to do—keeping you alive."
"But I'm not supposed to have those instincts," Harry said. "Not to that degree. Normal people don't—they don't rip out throats with their teeth."
"You're not a normal person," Hermione said gently. "You're a partial werewolf in a situation designed to trigger every predatory instinct you have. Blood, violence, threat to others—all of that was tailor-made to bring out your wolf side."
"So what?" Harry asked bitterly. "I'm just supposed to accept that sometimes I'll lose control and kill people? That's not—that's not okay. That's not something I can live with."
"No," Ginny agreed. "It's not. But you're not going to lose control like that again."
"You don't know that."
"I do," Ginny insisted. "Because you feel terrible right now. Because you're sitting here questioning every choice you made, torturing yourself over it. If the wolf had truly taken over, if you'd become the kind of monster you're afraid of, you wouldn't care. You'd be justifying it, rationalizing it, looking forward to the next time."
Harry wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Because she was right, wasn't she? The satisfaction had lasted only a split second before the horror had crashed over him. If he were truly becoming a monster, wouldn't the horror have been the brief emotion and the satisfaction the lasting one?
"You need to talk to Professor Lupin," Hermione said. "He has been a werewolf his whole life. He'll understand what you're going through better than anyone."
"I don't want to burden him—"
"Harry, that's not how this works," Hermione interrupted. "You don't get to decide you're too much trouble and suffer alone. That's not noble. It's just stubborn and stupid."
The bluntness of her words made Harry blink. Hermione rarely called him stupid.
"She's right," Ginny said. "You have people who care about you, Harry. People who want to help. You don't have to carry this alone."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Harry had spent so much of his life feeling like a burden to the Dursleys, like his very existence was an imposition. The instinct to handle things himself, to not ask for help, was so deeply ingrained that going against it felt wrong.
"What if I hurt someone?" Harry asked quietly. "What if next time, it's not a Death Eater? What if it's someone I care about?"
"You won't," Ginny said with absolute certainty.
"How can you know that?"
"Because I know you," Ginny replied. "I've watched you, Harry. The way you pull your punches when you're play-fighting with Ron. The way you're careful with your strength around us even though you're still getting used to it. The way you practice control constantly, even when you think no one's watching."
She shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his. "You're so afraid of hurting someone that you'd probably let yourself get injured before you'd risk lashing out at a friend. That's not who you are. That's not who you'll ever be."
"I don't know how to come back from this," Harry admitted. "How do I just—go back to normal? Sit down at breakfast tomorrow and pass the porridge like I didn't kill someone yesterday?"
"You don't," Hermione said gently. "You won't ever be exactly who you were before last night. This changed you. But that doesn't mean you're broken, Harry. It just means you're different now."
"Different how?"
"You know firsthand what you're capable of in the worst situations," Hermione said. "And you can choose what to do with that knowledge. You can let it terrify you into paralysis, or you can use it to make sure you never lose control like that again unless there's absolutely no other choice."
Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The logical part of his brain recognized that they were right, that his guilt was disproportionate to the circumstances, that he'd been defending someone and acting on instinct in a life-or-death situation.
But logic didn't make the taste go away. Didn't make the memories stop replaying. Didn't make him feel like any less of a monster.
Ginny's arm came around his shoulders, and then Hermione's did the same from the other side. They held him like that, bracketing him with their warmth and presence, not saying anything, just being there.
And slowly—so slowly—some of the tension in Harry's chest began to ease.
He still felt like a monster. Still tasted blood. Still saw the Death Eater's terrified eyes every time he blinked.
But he wasn't alone. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to keep him from drowning.
"I loved you before last night," Ginny said quietly into his shoulder. "And I love you now. That hasn't changed."
"Same," Hermione whispered from his other side. "You're still Harry. Still ours. Still the person we chose."
He turned toward Ginny, meaning to say something, to thank her for understanding, for sharing her own nightmare to help him process his. But the words stuck in his throat, trapped behind the emotion threatening to overwhelm him.
So instead, Harry kissed her.
It was soft and grateful and full of everything he couldn't articulate—thank you for not flinching away from what I am, thank you for trusting me even when I don't trust myself, thank you for loving me despite the blood on my hands.
Ginny kissed him back with the same gentleness, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, her thumb brushing across his cheekbone. When they pulled apart, her eyes were bright and she was smiling.
"We're going to get through this," she said. "All of us. Together."
Harry nodded. He turned to Hermione and kissed her too; she kissed him back with the same passion.
"I need to write to Sirius," Harry said as he pulled back, his voice rough. "Ask him to contact Professor Lupin...I need to have a long talk with him."
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