Echo, perched precariously on Skip's back, felt the biting chill of the evening air. His sapphire hair flickered with increasing desperation as he watched the last sliver of the sun dip below the horizon, painting the western sky in hues of angry orange and fading purple. The eastern sky, meanwhile, was already yielding to the encroaching darkness, and there, a sliver of silvery light, almost mocking in its serene glow, signaled the rising moon.
"Go, Skip, go!" Echo urged, his voice flat but laced with a frantic plea. "We can't be late! Things are gonna get really bad if we are."
Skip, already running at an impossible speed, stretched her powerful legs, her muscles bunching and releasing with fluid grace. The ground beneath them became a mere blur, the trees of the Forbidden Forest a solid, green wall on either side. They moved so fast that the very air seemed to crackle around them, but the encroaching twilight was faster still. Suddenly, ahead, the gnarled, thrashing branches of the Whomping Willow loomed. Its heavy limbs, usually still at this hour, thrashed violently, whipping through the air with a furious, rhythmic CRACK, each blow powerful enough to splinter a lesser tree.
"The Whomping Willow," Echo stated, his voice a strained whisper as he took in the sheer, unpredictable speed of its movements. "It's… surprisingly quick for a tree."
Skip neighed, a frustrated, breathy sound, as she dodged a sweeping branch that would have flattened them both. She wove left, then right, her immense speed barely allowing her to evade the relentless assault. The tree seemed alive with a malevolent intelligence, its branches striking with calculated precision, blocking every possible path.
"It knows," Echo muttered, his sapphire hair flaring with a sudden, dreadful understanding. "It's actively keeping us out. It's not just thrashing; it's fighting."
They tried again and again, Skip launching herself forward, weaving through the gaps in the branches, but the Willow anticipated her every move, its limbs slamming down with brutal force, forcing them back. The rhythmic THUMP-CRACK of the tree's attacks echoed through the growing darkness.
Echo glanced at the sky. The moon, once a thin crescent, was now a distinct half-circle, casting an eerie, silver glow on the thrashing tree. Panic, a cold, weird feeling he rarely permitted himself, began to curdle in his gut.
"No, no, no!" he whispered, his voice rising, raw with desperation. His hair, a chaotic maelstrom of sapphire, violet, and terrified crimson, pulsed wildly. "We're almost out of time! Think, Echo, think! There has to be a way around this… tree tantrum!"
Suddenly, a flash of red and gold caught his eye. Perched high on a branch of the Whomping Willow, almost invisible against the rapidly darkening sky, was Fawkes. The phoenix trilled, a clear, ringing sound that seemed to cut through the frantic thrashing of the tree. As Echo watched, a single, brilliant crimson feather detached itself from Fawkes's wing and drifted downwards, spiraling gently through the furious limbs of the Willow. It landed softly on the ground, just outside the reach of the tree's thrashing branches.
Echo's eyes widened. A feather. A single, insignificant feather. But from Fawkes. The gold in his hair flared with a sudden, intuitive leap of logic. Fawkes. Dumbledore. The control mechanism.
"The knot!" Echo shrieked, his voice flat but triumphant, the gold in his hair blazing. "The knot at its base! The one that paralyzes it!" He had heard the whispers, the legends, the barely remembered tales from his earliest days at Hogwarts. A knot on the trunk, a secret, almost mythical spot, that could subdue the violent tree. But how to reach it?
He slid off Skip's back, landing lightly on the mossy ground. "Sniffles!" he whispered, projecting his thought, a sudden, desperate gamble. "Here! Now! And bring the feather!"
Almost instantly, a tiny black blur streaked from the direction of the castle. Sniffles, panting slightly, skidded to a halt beside him, a luminous crimson feather clutched delicately in his tiny paw. He held it out to Echo, his beady eyes gleaming with a mix of anticipation and concern.
Echo snatched the feather, his emerald hair pulsing with renewed determination. He held it aloft. "A feather from a phoenix, infused with the magic of Dumbledore himself. It's a key, Sniffles. A temporary override."
He turned to the Whomping Willow, its branches still thrashing furiously. With a grim set to his lips, Echo launched himself forward, a tiny, defiant figure against the colossal, raging tree. He dodged a sweeping limb, ducked under another, the wind of their passage whipping at his robes. He could feel the ground trembling under the tree's impact.
He ran, weaving and ducking, until he was directly beneath the furious, thumping branches. Then, with a burst of emerald and gold, he leaped, scrambling onto the rough, moss-covered trunk. He clung there, precariously, as the tree roared and shuddered around him. His eyes, sharp and focused, darted across the bark, searching for the legendary knot.
It wasn't obvious. It was a gnarled, almost invisible bulge, half-hidden by a tangle of roots and moss. Echo pressed the phoenix feather against it, hard. The feather pulsed, a faint, golden light spreading from its tip, seeping into the bark.
Then, with a final, shuddering THUMP, the Whomping Willow went still. Its thrashing branches froze mid-air, like a monstrous, petrified dance. A sudden, eerie silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the rapid thudding of Echo's own heart.
He didn't waste a second. He slid down the trunk, landing beside Skip. "To the Shrieking Shack, Skip!" he urged, swinging himself back onto her back. "The secret passage!"
Skip, released from the Willow's assault, surged forward, galloping towards the tree's base. As they drew closer, a hidden opening, barely visible beneath the gnarled roots, became apparent. It was a dark, narrow tunnel, partially obscured by clinging vines.
They plunged into the darkness, the sound of Skip's hooves muffled by the earth. The air grew colder and heavier, filled with the scent of damp earth and decay. The tunnel sloped downwards, winding and twisting, before eventually opening into a larger, more cavernous space. Ahead, a faint, flickering light glowed, and the ominous sounds of muffled shouts and snarls echoed from deeper within. Echo's sapphire hair flared with a grim resolve. They were close—too close.
They burst into a dilapidated room, dust motes dancing in the meager light filtering through grimy windows. The flickering light was coming from a single, broken lantern clutched in James Potter's trembling hand. The room was a wreck: furniture splintered, wallpaper peeling, and the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the pungent odor of fear.
"Severus!" Echo shrieked, his voice flat with desperation, the sapphire in his hair erupting into a frantic, searching violet. His eyes darted around the ruined room, past splintered planks and overturned chairs. "Severus! Where are you?!"
His gaze finally landed on a shadowed corner. There, huddled against the wall, was Severus Snape, his usually pale face ashen, his body trembling. A dark, rapidly expanding stain bloomed on the sleeve of his robes, just above his elbow. He was clutching the wound, his eyes wide with a primal terror that Echo had never seen in him before. Standing a few feet away, their faces etched with a ghastly mixture of fear, shock, and profound regret, were James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew. Their youthful exuberance had vanished, replaced by the grim reality of the situation. Their eyes, wide and horrified, were fixed not on Snape, but on something else, something lurking in the deepest shadows of the room.
Echo followed their gaze. In the center of the dilapidated room, a figure was writhing on the floor. Remus Lupin. He was no longer the quiet, scholarly boy Echo knew. His clothes were torn, straining at the seams. His limbs elongated, contorted, muscles rippling violently under his skin. A low, guttural moan, raw with agony, ripped from his throat, quickly escalating into a pained howl. His skin stretched, tightening, and coarse, matted fur, dark brown and bristly, began to sprout across his face, his hands, his entire body. His teeth sharpened into vicious fangs, his fingernails elongated into dreadful claws. His face, once pale and scholarly, twisted into a lupine muzzle, his eyes glowing with a terrifying, feral light.
The transformation was horrific, a grotesque ballet of bone and flesh rearranging itself, each crack and tear of fabric a sickening punctuation mark to the inevitable. Echo watched, transfixed, the violet in his hair deepening with a primal, unthinking terror he rarely allowed himself to feel. The werewolf, fully formed, rose on two powerful, muscled legs, its head thrown back in a spine-chilling, victorious howl that echoed through the Shrieking Shack. Its eyes, burning with a predatory hunger, fixed on the terrified forms of James, Sirius, and Peter. Its feral gaze, now burning with raw instinct, locked onto Echo, and a low, menacing growl rumbled in its chest.
"Remus?" Echo whispered, his voice flat, yet edged with a fragile hope. The violet in his hair flickered, desperately searching for a hint of the boy he knew. "Still in there, Lupin? Even a little bit?"
The werewolf responded with a guttural snarl, a sound devoid of human recognition. It lunged, a blur of fur and claw, its massive paw sweeping towards Echo. Echo reacted with impossible speed, his emerald hair flaring as he whipped out his wand, not to cast a spell, but to block. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, the raw magical energy of his shield deflecting the swipe with a dull thud.
"Look, I really don't wanna hurt you, Remus," Echo stated, his voice flat, but a genuine sadness permeated his tone. "This is… a bit of a mess. But I gotta keep these… statistically insignificant individuals safe." His eyes, however, held no judgment, only a deep, unsettling clarity as he looked into the werewolf's unseeing, predatory gaze. "You're gone, aren't you? Nothing left of him." A profound sigh escaped Echo's lips, a sound of resignation and regret. "Sorry, Remus," he whispered, the emerald in his hair darkening to a somber, almost black hue. "Seriously. But this is the only way to go."
He plunged deep within himself, past the usual logical pathways, past the emotional responses he was so painstakingly calibrating. He delved into the core of his being, to the dark, untamed affinity that hummed perpetually beneath his consciousness, the raw, untamed magic that had always defied convention. His black hair, from root to tip, turned a terrifying, obsidian black, shimmering with an unseen, predatory energy.
"Alright, dark side," Echo stated, his voice flat, yet resonating with a cold, powerful demand that seemed to vibrate through the very air. "Big ask here. A real showstopper, if you let me hit this spell at full power. Just this once. Let me show off how efficient, and maybe a little brutal, total control can be."
He raised his wand, pointing it directly at the snarling werewolf. The obsidian black of his hair pulsed, then flared with an icy, brilliant blue, radiating an intense, palpable cold that seemed to drain the warmth from the dilapidated shack.
"Glacius Maxima!" Echo commanded, his voice a low, resonant hum, utterly devoid of emotion.
A torrent of blinding, absolute blue light erupted from his wand, slamming into the werewolf with devastating force. The creature's snarl froze on its face, its powerful limbs locked mid-stride. In a matter of heartbeats, the monstrous form of Remus Lupin, the terrifying werewolf, was encased in a shimmering, perfectly sculpted block of solid ice, every bristling hair, every sharpened claw, every predatory gleam in its eye, captured in a chilling, immutable tableau. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the ragged breathing of James, Sirius, and Peter.
Before any of them could utter a sound, Echo turned to them, his obsidian hair still glowing with an eerie, icy blue. His voice was flat, urgent, leaving no room for argument.
"Run!" he commanded, his gaze sweeping over their stunned, terrified faces. "All of you. Now. Go! Get out!"
Their paralysis shattered, James, Sirius, and Peter scrambled backward, their eyes wide with fear and incomprehension. They didn't need to be told twice. They burst through the broken door, their footsteps echoing as they fled into the night. Echo waited, listening to their receding footsteps, ensuring they were truly gone. Then, with a final, weary sigh, he turned back to the frozen werewolf.
"Sorry, Remus," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
With a sharp, precise flick of his wrist, Echo pointed his wand at the crumbling doorframe. "Coloporta Completus!" he muttered, the Latin words resonating with a finality that brooked no resistance. A shimmer of blue light encased the entire entrance, then solidified, binding the shattered planks, the rotting wood, and the very air itself into an impenetrable, unbreakable barrier. The Shrieking Shack was locked. And inside, a frozen werewolf waited for the dawn.
The cold night air bit at their lungs as they stumbled out of the Shrieking Shack, the terrifying howls now muffled by the newly sealed door. James, Sirius, and Peter collapsed onto the damp grass, chests heaving, eyes wide and haunted. Severus, pale and trembling, leaned against a nearby tree, clutching his bleeding arm, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Echo emerged last, his obsidian hair still shimmering with an icy blue, though the intensity was fading. He took a single, deep breath, then another, his chest rising and falling with a controlled, almost mechanical rhythm. Once his breathing had evened out, he turned, his hollow eyes sweeping over the four shaken figures.
"You… you utter imbeciles!" Echo snarled, his voice flat but laced with a fury that made them all flinch. His icy blue hair flickered with a dangerous crimson. He strode forward, and before any of them could react, his fist shot out, connecting with a sickening thud against James Potter's jaw. James cried out, stumbling backward. Without missing a beat, Echo landed a sharp blow to Sirius Black's gut, eliciting a choked gasp, then a swift, open-handed smack across Peter Pettigrew's face, sending the boy sprawling.
"Are you all a bunch of idiots?" Echo demanded, his voice dangerously low, his crimson hair blazing. "How dare you? How dare you, knowing what you knew, use your friend's condition as a bloody prank? This was not a prank! This was as far from a prank as anyone could possibly get! You nearly got him killed! You nearly got yourselves killed! And you, Potter, you nearly got Snape killed!"
He glared at them, his fury palpable. "I should report this to Dumbledore at once! I should expose all of you! But I won't. Not because I have any sympathy for your utterly idiotic, reckless behavior. But because I really don't want to expose Lupin and ruin his life, the poor sod. He deserves better than to have his existence revealed by your monstrous lack of judgment."
Echo spun on his heel, turning to Severus, who was still slumped against the tree, shakily trying to stem the flow of blood from his arm. The sight of Snape's pale, terrified face, combined with the raw wound, caused the angry crimson in Echo's hair to recede, replaced by a deep, troubled sapphire.
"Snape," Echo stated, his voice flat, but with a new, gentler edge. He knelt, taking Severus's arm in his uninjured hand, his wand appearing in the other. A faint, pale green light emanated from the tip, flowing into the wound. The bleeding immediately ceased, and the torn skin began to knit itself back together with astonishing speed. "Are you alright? Did he bite you?"
Severus watched, wide-eyed, as his arm healed. "No," he whispered, his voice hoarse, shaking his head. "No, he didn't… bite me. But that charm, Echo… will it hold? I know how weak your charms usually are."
Echo straightened, his sapphire hair dimming slightly. "I know," he conceded, his voice flat. "The freezing spell won't hold him long. But maybe he won't notice how weak the locking spell is…"
Just as the words left his lips, a thunderous CRACK ripped through the night, followed by a splintering groan of wood. The door of the Shrieking Shack exploded outwards, sending shards of timber flying. From the gaping maw of the ruined entrance, the terrifying, enraged form of the werewolf emerged, its eyes glowing with feral hunger.
Echo blinked, his sapphire hair flickering with a resigned, almost comical sigh. "Or maybe not."
"Run!" Echo commanded again, his voice flat, his gaze sweeping over their stunned, terrified faces. "All of you. Now. Go! Get out!"
James, Sirius, and Peter, their paralysis shattered, scrambled backward, their eyes wide with fear and incomprehension. They didn't need to be told twice. They burst through the broken door, their footsteps echoing as they fled into the night.
Severus, however, tried to push himself up from the tree, only to cry out as his leg buckled beneath him. He crumpled back down, his face contorted in pain. "My leg!" he gasped, clutching his left ankle. "I can't move it! It's sprained, badly!"
Echo's sapphire hair flickered with a grim realization: another variable—an illogical, inconvenient variable. He spun, his eyes darting to the crumpled figure of Severus. There was no time for deliberation. The werewolf was already lumbering towards them, its eyes burning with predatory hunger. Echo raised his wand, pointing it towards the Forbidden Forest. His black hair flared, pulsating with a dark, primal energy. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, projecting his command deep into the ancient woods.
"Moonfang! Shadow! Whisper! Here! Now! Hold him!" Echo commanded, his voice a low, resonant hum in his mind, amplified by his beast-magic.
From the depths of the Forbidden Forest, three blurs of pristine white fur were summoned from an apparating spell into the clearing. Three white werewolves, their eyes burning with a fierce, intelligent light, landed silently between Echo and the enraged Remus-werewolf. They positioned themselves in a defensive semicircle; their teeth bared in silent snarls, their bodies tensed for battle. The Remus-werewolf paused, a guttural growl rumbling in its chest as it assessed the unexpected opposition. Echo didn't waste a second. He brought the tip of his wand to his mouth and whistled, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the tense air. A beat later, a flash of luminous white streaked towards him from the direction of the Whomping Willow. Skip, the unicorn, arrived, her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide with urgency.
"Skip!" Echo commanded, his voice flat and urgent. He grabbed Severus by the scruff of his robes, yanking him with surprising strength, ignoring the boy's yelp of pain. With a grunt of effort, Echo hoisted the struggling Severus onto Skip's back. "Run! Take him! Get him to the castle, and don't stop until he's safe!"
Skip neighed, a sharp, affirmative sound, and then, with a powerful surge of her muscular legs, launched herself into a full gallop, disappearing into the darkness with Severus clinging precariously to her back. Echo turned, his obsidian hair blazing with a cold, determined resolve. The three white werewolves, Moonfang, Shadow, and Whisper, circled the Remus-werewolf, their movements fluid and precise, their growls a low, continuous rumble. Echo met Remus's feral gaze, his own eyes burning with a grim acceptance.
"Alright, Remus," Echo murmured, his voice flat, yet carrying a profound sadness. "Let's end this." He raised his wand, his stance wide and ready, prepared to face the monstrous form of his friend.
The air practically buzzed, those three white werewolves—Moonfang, Shadow, and Whisper—doing a pretty good job of keeping the pissed-off Remus-werewolf busy. They were like, in sync, lunging and faking, letting the Remus-werewolf go for them, then just dodging out of the way. Lots of growling and snarling, real primal stuff. The Remus-werewolf was just pure rage and instinct, snapping and clawing, but those white wolves, man, they were locked in, keeping it from getting to me.
Echo watched, his black hair still practically glowing with focus, but his brain was just buzzing, desperate. How the hell do you stop a werewolf? Freezing it was a last-ditch effort, and it didn't even last. A spell strong enough to hold this thing? Forget it, it would take way too much magic, and even then, who knows if it'd even work on something like this. Calming charm? Nah. Sleeping draught? Doubt it'd even touch it. He needed something solid, something that wouldn't mess Remus up for good but would just stop this. His mind was racing, digging through every weird charm, every forgotten bit of beast-magic he ever heard of.
Then, out of nowhere, James Potter, Sirius Black, and Peter Pettigrew—the guys he told to run and figured had done exactly that—were stumbling back into the clearing. They were still pale, but their eyes had this new, stubborn look. James, of course, got right between the Remus-werewolf and Echo, jaw set. Sirius pulled his wand, looking serious. Even Peter, shaking like a leaf, managed to get his out.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Echo yelled, his voice laced with disbelief, his black hair flaring bright red. "I told you to run! Don't try to be heroes, you idiots! This isn't some competition! Get out of the way before you get yourselves killed!"
James, still facing the snarling werewolf, didn't even look at Echo. "We're not playing hero, Echo!" he yelled back, sounding strained. "We're holding him back! We've done this before!"
Sirius nodded, grim. "He's right, Echo! We hang out with him every full moon!"
Echo's red hair flickered to purple. "You... you what? You hang out with him every full moon? How is that even possible? How are you guys not all werewolves yourselves?!"
And then, just like that, they started to change. James's body rippled and stretched, and then, poof, he was a big, beautiful stag, with antlers already impressive, smart eyes, and just as loyal as James's. Sirius convulsed, twisting, hair popping out fast, and then, bam, a big, shaggy black dog, eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief and fierce protectiveness, stood panting next to the stag. Peter, in a less dramatic but just as quick transformation, shrank and twisted, becoming a tiny, nervous rat, whiskers twitching, but still staring at the werewolf.
Echo just stared, my jaw practically on the ground. His multi-colored hair—purple, blue, gold—just went wild with shock. Animagi. They were all unregistered Animagi. And they'd been doing this for years. The sheer, insane guts of it. The reckless, crazy, incredibly dumb, but also incredibly loyal thing, turning into animals just to hang with their werewolf friend.
His shock pretty quickly turned into my usual sarcasm. Echo looked at the stag, the dog, and the rat, then back at the snarling Remus-werewolf, who was now kind of distracted by his transforming friends.
"Oh, yeah," He said, my voice deadpan, his gold hair pulsing with pure, comical exasperation. "I feel so much safer now. Seriously. A deer, a dog, and a rat. Against a full-on werewolf. My personal safety assessment has gone up, like, a million percent. Totally."
The transformed Marauders moved with a desperate, animalistic grace. Prongs, the majestic stag, lowered his impressive antlers, feinting a charge at the enraged Remus-werewolf, attempting to draw its attention. Padfoot, the shaggy black dog, snarled and nipped at its heels, a furious, distracting blur of motion. Even Wormtail, the tiny rat, scurried frantically around the werewolf's feet, a small but persistent nuisance.
The Remus-werewolf, however, was pure, unadulterated instinct and raw power. It swatted Prongs aside with a casual, brutal swipe of its paw, sending the stag skidding across the damp earth with a pained grunt. Padfoot, caught off guard, was met with a swift, powerful kick that sent him tumbling. Wormtail, too slow to react, was flicked away like a pebble, landing with a squeak against a shattered piece of wood. The werewolf snarled, its eyes burning with a singular focus, and lumbered towards Echo, who stood ready with his wand.
"Stay back, Remus!" Echo commanded, his voice flat, his black hair flaring with desperate energy. He unleashed a barrage of basic stunning spells, a flurry of red light bolts. But the werewolf merely grunted, shaking off each impact as if it were a minor annoyance. The spells barely registered, dissolving against its thick fur and raw magical resistance.
The werewolf lunged, its massive jaws snapping. Echo sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the attack, but the creature was relentless. Just as it coiled to lunge again, a flash of black fur slammed into its leg. Padfoot, bleeding but defiant, had bitten down hard on the werewolf's ankle, clinging on with a tenacious grip.
The Remus-werewolf roared, a sound of fury and pain, and twisted, grabbing the struggling dog. It lifted Padfoot into the air, bringing him closer, its fangs bared, a guttural growl rumbling in its chest. Echo watched, a cold dread twisting in his gut. Basic spells were useless. Physical force was useless. He had no choice. His black hair flared, then shifted to a deep, ominous evil green, pulsating with dark, forbidden intent. He extended his wand, his gaze fixed on the snarling werewolf.
"Imperio!" Echo commanded, his voice a low, chilling whisper, imbued with absolute, unyielding will.
The werewolf froze. Its snarl died on its lips, and its body tensed and rigid. Padfoot, released from its grip, dropped to the ground with a yelp and scrambled away. The predatory gleam in the werewolf's eyes flickered, replaced by a momentary, unsettling blankness. It stood motionless, its head bowed slightly, like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been drawn taut.
Peter, who had scrambled back to his rat form, shifted back into a boy, his voice a shaky squeak. "Echo! It worked! Why did you stop? Why aren't you controlling him? Make him go away!"
Echo's violet hair pulsed erratically. "Peter, you imbecile!" he snapped, his voice flat with exasperation. "Do you understand nothing of lycanthropy? A werewolf, in its fully transformed state, is pure instinct! It operates on a primitive, animalistic drive! There is no 'mind' to control, no rational thought process to subvert! The Imperius Curse requires a host with a functioning intellect and a conscious will to dominate! I can suppress its movements, yes, for a brief, incredibly taxing moment, but I cannot control its instincts! It is a biological imperative, not a psychological one!"
As if to punctuate his words, the werewolf gave a shuddering, violent spasm. The blankness in its eyes vanished, replaced once more by raw, unadulterated feral hunger. It let out a guttural roar, shaking its massive head as if clearing it, and lunged directly at Echo. James, still in his stag form, let out a furious roar and threw himself between Echo and the lunging werewolf. It was a desperate, brave, and utterly futile act. The werewolf, its momentum unchecked, slammed into Prongs with bone-jarring force. The stag crumpled, a sickening CRACK echoing through the shack. The werewolf's massive jaws snapped, seizing James's prone form. A choked gurgle ripped from Prongs as the werewolf began to shake him, a rag doll in its fangs, preparing to tear him in half.
Echo's emerald hair flared, then turned a horrified crimson. He raised his wand, his voice a flat, desperate whisper. "Crucio!"
A sickly green light shot from his wand, slamming into the werewolf. The creature shuddered, a low growl rumbling in its chest, but it did not release James. The spell, meant to inflict excruciating pain, merely caused a flicker of annoyance in its feral eyes.
Echo stared, his crimson hair pulsing with frustrated fury. He wanted to hurt it. He wanted to stop it. But he couldn't. Not truly. Not with the raw, pure intent required for the Cruciatus Curse. He didn't hate Remus. He didn't want to inflict pain upon the innocent boy trapped within the beast. And James… James was an idiot. A reckless, impulsive, utterly illogical Gryffindor. Echo didn't want him to die, no. But he couldn't summon the pure, sadistic intent required to project his fury into protection on the werewolf. He tried to picture James as Severus, as Lily, as anyone he could genuinely love enough to hate seeing them hurt, but the mental image wouldn't solidify. His magic, so attuned to his emotional state, refused to cooperate.
Then, a tiny black blur streaked into the fray. Sniffles. The Niffler, an improbable beacon of chaotic heroism, scrambled out from Echo's safe robe pocket and climbed up the werewolf's leg with surprising speed, his beady eyes gleaming with furious determination. He reached the creature's face, his tiny claws extending, and with a series of furious, squeaking snarls, began to slash at the werewolf's muzzle.
The werewolf roared, a sound of baffled rage, and dropped James, who fell to the ground with a soft thud. It pawed at its face, momentarily distracted, then seized the tiny Niffler in its massive paw, its claws closing around Sniffles's small body. Echo watched, paralyzed by horror. The crushing grip. The helpless squeak of the Niffler. A wave of pure, unadulterated rage, cold and potent, surged through him, eclipsing all other thoughts. This was not about logic. This was not about rules. This was about Sniffles. His Niffler. His one true friend.
His black hair exploded into a terrifying, virulent green, darker and more intense than any he had manifested before, pulsating with raw, murderous intent. His voice, a low, guttural snarl, ripped from his throat, utterly devoid of any humanity.
"CRUCIO!"
The blast of emerald light that erupted from his wand was blinding, absolute, and imbued with every ounce of his focused, cold fury. It slammed into the werewolf with devastating force. A chilling, inhuman shriek ripped from the creature's throat, a sound of agony that vibrated through the very stones of the shack. The werewolf spasmed, its massive limbs flailing wildly, then collapsed to the ground with a thunderous thud, releasing Sniffles, who scrambled away, unharmed but terrified.
Echo stared, his wand still raised, his green hair slowly receding to a troubled sapphire. The werewolf lay writhing on the ground, its howls of pain slowly diminishing to pained whimpers. And then, through the rapidly receding bestial features, through the matted fur and the sharpened fangs, Echo saw them. Remus Lupin's eyes. Wide, terrified, and profoundly, unmistakably human.
The vibrant, malevolent green in Echo's hair flickered, then rapidly faded, replaced by a troubled, almost horrified sapphire. The raw, searing hatred that had fueled the curse drained from him, leaving behind a cold, unsettling emptiness. He watched, transfixed, as the werewolf continued to writhe, its whimpers growing softer, its powerful body shuddering. The human eyes in the beast's face, wide with a profound, unfathomable agony, were fixed on him.
The spell. The Cruciatus. He had used it on Remus. The thought, cold and sharp, sliced through his mind. He had felt the pure, unadulterated intent, the desire to inflict torment, and it had been terrifyingly potent. And now, seeing Remus's eyes…
He lowered his wand slowly, his hand trembling almost imperceptibly. The immense magical drain left him feeling hollowed out, but it was the emotional aftermath that truly unsettled him. The hatred was gone, replaced by a sickening throb of regret and a strange, unfamiliar pang of… pity.
Echo took a tentative step forward, then another, approaching the whimpering beast with an uncharacteristic caution. The pain. It had to be the pain. A logical mind, even one submerged in primal instinct, might be shocked back into consciousness by such overwhelming sensory input.
He knelt a few feet away, his sapphire hair pulsing with a hesitant, almost fragile hope. He met the werewolf's agonized gaze, searching for any flicker of the scholarly, kind boy he knew.
"Remus?" Echo whispered, his voice flat, but laced with an almost desperate plea. "Are you… are you back? Are you in control, even a little bit?"
The werewolf shuddered, a raw, tormented growl tearing from its throat. The human eyes, for a fleeting moment, held a flicker of recognition, a spark that the Remus Echo knew, then they glazed over, swallowed by the primal, burning hunger. With a savage lunge, faster than Echo could react, the creature was on him, pinning him to the damp, leaf-strewn ground outside the Shrieking Shack. Its immense weight crushed the air from his lungs, and the rank, hot breath of the beast washed over his face. Its claws, razor-sharp, dug into his robes, holding him fast.
"Remus!" Echo gasped, his voice strained, his sapphire hair flaring with a desperate plea. "Stop! Please, stop! You don't want to do this!"
The werewolf ignored him, its muzzle inches from Echo's throat. A low, guttural rumble vibrated through its chest, and its fangs, dripping with saliva, hovered menacingly close. The human flicker in its eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating predatory gleam. The full moon, now a brilliant orb in the sky, seemed to pour its light directly onto the clearing, fueling the creature's rage. Just as the werewolf lowered its head, its fangs poised to strike, a desperate, raw shout tore from Echo's throat. His obsidian hair, shot through with frantic gold, pulsed with a singular, desperate intent.
"Bombarda!"
Nothing happened, not from Echo's wand. Instead, a searing, concentrated ball of red-hot fire erupted from the sky, slamming into the werewolf's side with explosive force. The creature shrieked, a sound of agony and surprise, and was blasted away, slamming into the base of a gnarled oak tree with a bone-jarring thud. It lay there, stunned, whimpering, a scorched patch smoking on its matted fur. Everyone in the clearing—James, still in stag form, struggling to rise; Sirius, the black dog, limping to his feet; Peter, a terrified rat, huddled by the shack's broken wall—looked up as a massive shadow fell over them. A leathery wing blotted out the moonlight, and the air thrummed with raw power. From the dark sky above, a creature of nightmare and majesty descended.
It was Wick, Echo's dragon, her scales a shimmering, midnight black with red and streaks of green, her eyes blazing with intelligent fury. She landed with a ground-shaking tremor, her vast form dominating the clearing, dwarfing everyone present, showing that she had finally grown to an adult. Without hesitation, she drew a deep, rattling breath, and a torrent of red and emerald fire erupted from her maw, not at the werewolf, but around Echo and the cowering Marauders, forming a blazing, impenetrable wall that momentarily pushed back the encroaching darkness.
Then, Wick turned, her monstrous head lowering, her eyes fixed on the whimpering werewolf. A low, guttural growl, a sound of ancient, reptilian dominance, rumbled in her chest. She took a step forward, her massive claws digging into the soft earth, and then, with a sound that vibrated through every bone in the clearing, Wick let out a deafening, terrifying roar. It was a roar that spoke of primordial power, of raw, untamed might, a challenge that brooked no defiance.
The Remus-werewolf, battered and momentarily cowed by Echo's magic, met the dragon's furious gaze. For a moment, it seemed to hesitate, its predatory instincts warring with a primal, deeply ingrained terror. Then, with a final, choked whimper, it turned tail and scrambled, half-crawling, half-running, deeper into the oppressive darkness of the Forbidden Forest.
Wick watched, her serpentine neck extending, her glowing eyes tracking the desperate flight of the Remus-werewolf into the impenetrable gloom of the forest. Behind it, a trio of white blurs—Moonfang, Shadow, and Whisper—streaked silently, their forms weaving through the trees, ensuring the enraged creature was driven far from the castle, far from any potential victims. Only when the last flicker of the werewolf's matted fur vanished, and the faint sounds of pursuit faded into the distance, did Wick lower her massive head.
Echo, still kneeling, gently coaxed Sniffles from his hiding spot, carefully tucking him back into his robe pocket. "You little hero," he murmured, his voice flat but tinged with warmth. He pressed a soft, grateful kiss to the Niffler's tiny head, and Sniffles let out a contented chirp, burrowing deeper into the warmth of the fabric.
Then, Echo rose, turning to Wick. He reached up, his hand surprisingly small against her massive, scaly snout, and stroked the smooth, midnight-black scales. "Wick," he said, his voice quiet but profound, "you were… spectacularly efficient. Thank you. Your timing was, as always, logically impeccable."
Wick rumbled deep in her chest, a sound like shifting tectonic plates. Her vast body quivered with a dragon's equivalent of pure, unadulterated joy. Her eyes, luminous and ancient, met Echo's, reflecting a fierce, protective devotion.
Echo turned, finally, to the Marauders, who were slowly, shakily, beginning to pick themselves up. His sapphire hair, which had softened from its angry crimson, began to flare again, this time with a clear, exasperated violet, a prelude to the meticulous, logical dressing-down he was about to deliver. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a torrent of well-reasoned recrimination—
But the words caught in his throat.
James, still in his stag form, was now struggling to shift back. As he did, his muscles convulsed, and the familiar human skin began to emerge, but not pristine. On his shoulder, just above the collar of his shirt, was a dark, oozing wound. A bite mark. A raw, ragged tear in the flesh. The Remus-werewolf's fangs had connected. Echo's eyes widened. His multi-hued hair, which had been a tempest of logical exasperation, suddenly froze, then flared into a brilliant, horrifying white. The implications, stark and immediate, slammed into his mind with the force of a physical blow. A bite. From a werewolf. A bite from a werewolf on the night of a full moon.
He didn't need to ask. He knew.
"Wick!" Echo shrieked, his voice flat with a sudden, desperate urgency. His white hair blazed with a terrifying, absolute command. "Wick, now! Cover us! Shade us from the moon! Immediately!"
Wick responded instantly, her massive wings unfurling, blotting out the moon with a vast, leathery expanse of black. The clearing was plunged into an inky gloom, the only light coming from the faint, terrified glint in the Marauders' eyes and the ominous, pulsing white of Echo's hair.
Sirius stumbled back, his transformation back to human form incomplete, one arm still shaggy with black fur. His eyes, wide and horrified, fixed on the wound on James's shoulder. No. No, this can't be happening. Not James. Not Prongs. He can't… he can't become like Remus. We swore… we swore we'd protect him. All of us. A cold, desperate panic seized him, threatening to swallow him whole. His breathing hitched, and a whimper, more dog than human, escaped his lips.
Peter, however, gave full vent to his terror. He shrieked, a high-pitched, almost animalistic sound, his tiny eyes darting from James's wound to the looming shadow of the dragon, then to Echo's terrifyingly calm, white-haired figure. "No! No, no, no! He's bitten! He's bitten! James is going to be a werewolf! Oh, Merlin, we're all doomed! We're all going to be werewolves! We're all going to die!" He collapsed to the ground, sobbing hysterically, burying his face in his hands.
Echo ignored Peter's histrionics, his gaze fixed on James, who was now fully human again, slumped against the tree, his breath coming in shallow gasps, his eyes glazed with pain and shock. The bite mark pulsed, a dark, angry red against his pale skin.
"Potter," Echo stated, his voice flat, but with a new, urgent intensity. His white hair blazed, illuminating the grim scene. "The bite was recent. The lunar transition is complete. This means… There is a narrow window. A statistical possibility, however remote, of intervention."
Sirius, startled by the unexpected declaration, snapped his head up. "Intervention? What… what are you talking about, Echo? There's no cure! Remus told us! There's no cure for a werewolf bite!" His voice was raw with desperation, clinging to any shred of hope.
Echo met his gaze, his white hair pulsing with a terrifying certainty. "There is no cure," he conceded, his voice a low hum. "That is a logical fallacy. Lycanthropy is a biological alteration, a magical mutation of the genetic code. However, the curse itself, the infection, is a magical construct. It is possible, in theory, to… disrupt the immediate transference. To sever the parasitic magical link before it fully integrates." He paused, his gaze sweeping over their terrified faces. "It is a risk. A significant risk. To myself, and to Potter. But if it is successful, the magical curse may be extracted, leaving only the physical wound."
"You… you can do that?" Sirius whispered, a fragile, desperate hope blossoming in his chest. "You can… un-werewolf him?"
"Possibly," Echo replied, his voice flat, his white hair flickering with intense concentration. "The procedure is… unconventional. And it requires a very specific… application of my unique magical affinity. And absolute silence. Not a word of this to anyone. Not to Dumbledore, not to your parents, not to any other… statistically insignificant individual. Do you understand? This will remain classified. Utterly. Permanently."
Sirius nodded vigorously, his eyes wide with desperate resolve. "Yes! Yes, Echo! Anything! We won't say a word! Swear it!"
Peter, though still whimpering, lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed. He scrambled forward, clutching Echo's robes. "Yes! Please, Echo! Please save James! I won't tell! I swear on my life! Please!"
Echo merely gave a curt nod, accepting their frantic promises. He knelt beside James, his white hair blazing with focused power. He reached down, his hand hovering inches above the raw, oozing bite mark on James's shoulder. His eyes, devoid of any visible emotion, seemed to pierce through the layers of flesh and bone, seeking the insidious magical infection that pulsed beneath. He closed his eyes, taking a single, deep breath.
He plunged deep within himself, past the cold logic, past the meticulously organized pathways of his mind. He delved into the very core of his being, to the dark, untamed affinity that hummed perpetually beneath his consciousness, the raw, untamed magic that had always defied convention. His black hair, from root to tip, turned a terrifying, obsidian black, shimmering with an unseen, predatory energy, reflecting the ancient, forbidden power he was about to unleash. A cold, searing tendril of pure magical energy, obsidian black and impossibly thin, erupted from Echo's fingertips. It plunged into James's shoulder, directly into the wound, causing James to arch his back and let out a strangled cry. The white of Echo's hair pulsed violently, reflecting the immense strain. He gritted his teeth, his jaw tight, his entire body rigid with effort.
He felt it. The insidious, writhing magical essence of the werewolf curse, attempting to anchor itself, to spread its tendrils into James's very being. It was a vicious, resilient thing, fighting back, attempting to merge with the healthy magical core of its new host. But Echo was more resilient. He was an anomaly, a breach in the conventional laws of magic. His unique affinity, the dark beast-magic that coursed through him, was perfectly suited to this. It was a parasite devouring another parasite.
He pulled. Slowly, agonizingly, he began to draw the dark magic out. It resisted, clinging fiercely, tearing at James's internal magical pathways. James screamed, a raw, tormented sound that tore at the quiet of the night. Sirius whimpered, a low, desperate sound, wanting to intervene, yet utterly paralyzed by the sight of his friend's agony and Echo's terrifying, unwavering focus. Peter sobbed hysterically, burying his face deeper in his hands. Even Wick, usually so stoic, let out a low, mournful rumble, her vast form casting a protective shadow.
Echo's entire body trembled, sweat beading on his brow, his muscles screaming in protest. His obsidian hair flared, then dimmed, then blazing again, a volatile storm of pure, unfettered power. He pushed past the pain, past the fatigue, focusing on the singular, terrifying thread of dark magic. He felt it detach, slowly, like a stubborn root being pulled from stubborn earth. A final, agonizing pull, and then—
The obsidian tendril snapped back into Echo's hand, shriveling and dissolving into a wisp of dark smoke that dissipated into the air. James went limp, his eyes rolling back in his head, his breathing shallow. The bite mark on his shoulder, however, no longer pulsed with an angry red. It was still a raw, open wound, but the insidious darkness was gone. Echo collapsed backward, utterly spent, his obsidian hair fading to a dull, exhausted grey. He lay there for a moment, chest heaving, listening to the frantic gasps of Sirius and the continued sobs of Peter. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, crawling towards James. He placed a trembling hand on James's forehead. The boy's skin was cool, his pulse weak but steady. The infection was gone.
"He will live," Echo stated, his voice flat, drained of all emotion. "And he will not be a werewolf. The curse has been extracted. But the wound… it will need proper magical healing. And he will require rest. Considerable rest."
Sirius scrambled forward, his transformation finally complete. His eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief. He knelt beside James, gently stroking his hair. "James… Prongs… he's okay?" he whispered, barely daring to hope.
Echo nodded, a single, weary blink. "He is alive. And whole. You are welcome." He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. The magical drain had been immense, far greater than he had anticipated.
He turned to Wick, who still stood guard, her vast wings blotting out the moon. "Wick," he murmured, his voice softer now, tinged with exhaustion. Thank you. Your assistance was… invaluable. Now, if you would be so kind, please transport James and his… associates to the castle and ensure you are not spotted. The last thing we need is for the whole castle to be in crisis mode over a dragon."
Wick dipped her monstrous head, a soft rumble emanating from her chest. She carefully scooped up the unconscious James in her massive claws, then motioned with her head towards Sirius and Peter. Sirius, with a grateful nod, helped the still-sobbing Peter clamber onto Wick's back. With another powerful beat of her wings, Wick ascended into the night sky, a dark, majestic silhouette against the fading moonlight, disappearing towards Hogwarts.
Wick's massive leathery wings beat a steady rhythm against the night air, carrying James, Sirius, and a still-sobbing Peter towards the distant lights of Hogwarts. James, though unconscious, was cradled carefully in Wick's claws, his body slack. Sirius, perched precariously on Wick's back beside Peter, leaned forward, his voice a hoarse whisper over the rushing wind.
"Echo!" Sirius called back, his voice strained. "Echo, what do we tell Madam Pomfrey? What do we say happened to James? And to us?"
Echo, walking steadily below, his grey hair still tinged with exhaustion, looked up, his gaze distant. "Tell her you encountered a Blast-Ended Screwt," he stated, his voice flat but clear. "You were testing some experimental magical fireworks, acquired from Hogsmeade, in the Forbidden Forest. The fireworks, predictably, attracted the creature. I, by logical happenstance, was present in the vicinity and assisted in fending it off. Emphasize my fortuitous presence. Do not elaborate beyond that. I will vouch for the veracity of the account."
Sirius frowned, a flicker of concern in his eyes. "But won't that make you look suspicious, Echo? You're always in the forest, but a Blast-Ended Skrewt?"
Echo sighed, a long, weary sound. "Black, the staff at Hogwarts, particularly Headmaster Dumbledore, are acutely aware of my… proclivity for the Forbidden Forest. My presence there is an established anomaly. They ceased to care about the specifics of my excursions approximately two years ago, provided I return alive and do not bring back any organism capable of dismembering a staff member. A Blast-Ended Screwt, while unpleasant, is within the parameters of my usual 'forest-related complications.' It will not raise undue suspicion."
He paused, his voice hardening, the grey in his hair deepening to a serious slate. "Furthermore, after tonight, you three will endeavor to exercise a degree of logical restraint. Your 'pranks,' as you term them, were previously akin to tightrope walking, swaying erratically on a perilous line, a dangerous pendulum of misbehavior. Tonight, however, you did not merely lean. You crossed the line entirely. And it was not the side of statistical favor."
Sirius, even through his relief and lingering fear, nodded grimly. "We understand, Echo. We will. We'll… we'll tone down our future pranks. To a four, rather than an eleven."
Peter, still sniffling, looked at Echo. "Echo? Are you… are you okay?"
"Yes, Peter. I am adequately functional," Echo replied, his voice flat.
Peter tilted his head, his small eyes narrowing. "No, you're not," he whispered, a tremor in his voice. "You're lying. You, and Sniffles, and even Wick… you all look like you want to bite our heads off."
Echo stopped, his gaze flat and unsettling. His grey hair, which had begun to settle, flared with a deep, furious violet. "You are entirely correct, Peter," he stated, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I do, in fact, feel an overwhelming urge to inflict physical harm upon all three of you. Specifically, I am experiencing a profound desire to sever your heads from your torsos and subsequently utilize them for… target practice." He swept his gaze from Peter to Sirius, then to where James, still unconscious, was being carried by Wick. "I told you to cease your idiotic 'pranks.' I did not instruct you to 'tone them down.' There is a logical, and indeed, morally imperative, difference between cessation and reduction. My objective was total elimination of this… utterly inefficient and dangerous behavior."
Sirius, despite his weariness, shifted nervously under Echo's intense stare. "Look, Echo; we get it. It was… a lot. We won't direct them squarely at you, or Snape, or… well, the rest of Slytherin. We'll be more… selective."
Echo let out a low, guttural grunt that was less an agreement and more a sound of profound dissatisfaction. The violet in his hair deepened, almost black. "That is… more acceptable. Still not good. It is merely a lesser degree of unacceptable. But it is, I suppose, an improvement over your prior, statistically alarming trajectory towards self-immolation and collateral damage." He sighed, a long, weary sound of exasperation. "Very well. Wick," he called up to the magnificent dragon, his voice flat but resolute. "Please convey James, Sirius, and Peter to the castle. I shall walk. I require the physical exertion to recalibrate my internal emotional parameters. I currently feel a distinct urge to transform into a much larger, more destructive beast and systematically dismantle every illogical structure within Hogwarts. Including the staff quarters."
Echo stood alone in the clearing, the silence profound, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves and the distant, mournful howl of the Remus-werewolf fading into the deepest reaches of the Forbidden Forest. He swayed again, his head light. He needed to recalibrate, rest, and process the astonishing, terrifying, and ultimately successful application of his dark magic.
He closed his eyes, then opened them again, his grey hair pulsing faintly before changing back to its usual midnight black. No emotion, no thought, just empty and relaxed, but not hallowed. He had saved James Potter. He had prevented a lycanthropic infection. He had used a forbidden curse and a terrifying new application of his own unique magic. He was a paradox. A logical contradiction. And for the first time in a long time, Echo felt something akin to… satisfaction. A cold, quiet, entirely logical satisfaction. He began the long, weary walk back to Hogwarts, the silence of the forest his only companion. The world, he mused, was far more complicated than even he, the master of logical deduction, had ever anticipated. And Remus Lupin, the quiet, scholarly werewolf, remained a most fascinating and deeply tragic variable. Then a cold thought came to his mind: Severeus Snape. The marauders might be able to keep secrets and their lips sealed, but Severeus is a victim of their cruelty for far longer than he is. This was the perfect opportunity to rip them apart. He would figure out how to convince him once he got to the castle.