The full moon was an immense, cold pearl hanging in the deep black velvet sky, casting a stark, silver light across the snow-dusted grounds of Hogwarts. Within the thick, stone walls of the Shrieking Shack, the evening was anything but serene. It was Christmas night, and the last chaotic remnants of the Yule Ball's spectacular disaster seemed swept away by the wind, leaving only the mundane, painful reality of the monthly transformation. The Wolfsbane Potion, thankfully, had done its job. The massive, shaggy creature lying on the floor was not the mindless, ravening beast of terror, but Remus Lupin, trapped inside a powerful, furry cage. He was an enormous, timber wolf-sized creature of russet and grey, his muzzle long, his paws the size of dinner plates, and his amber eyes—still carrying the profound intelligence and sorrow of the human within—whined and rolled in discomfort.
Echo, having successfully snuck out of his own extended detention for the 'accidental' destruction of the Great Hall's enchanted window, was attempting to make the best of the situation. He was seated unceremoniously on the dusty floor, his back propped against the cold stone wall, a thick, leather-bound volume—a complicated treatise on trans-continental portkey travel—propped open in his lap. To pass the time and keep his perpetually restless legs off the ground, he had them stretched out, crossed casually over the lower spine of the massive werewolf. The rhythmic, gentle thrum of the creature's breathing made for a surprisingly comfortable footrest.
Sniffles, taking advantage of the isolation, was having an absolute field day. The Niffler was burrowing enthusiastically into the floorboards and the dilapidated furniture, every so often emerging with a glinting, tarnished coin or a rusted, beautiful cufflink, which he immediately added to his growing hoard. Periodically, he would drop a particularly shiny bit of debris—a piece of crystallized quartz or an antique silver button—directly into the werewolf's thick fur, a silent offering to the largest, warmest thing in the room. Remus, incapable of using his hands, could only twitch an ear in acknowledgment.
Shimmer, the Demiguise, was the picture of domesticity. He was meticulously tending to the small, pathetic fire Echo had managed to conjure in the ancient, blackened hearth. Every so often, he would add a small, magically-sourced log with his long, slender fingers, then check the embers with a sober expression before curling up on a battered old ottoman for a quick nap. The magical house-elf, Pip, appeared with a sudden pop, balancing a tray laden with steaming spiced cider and a plate of sticky toffee pudding—a silent, faithful servant to the Champion, no matter the absurdity of the current location. He set the tray down and vanished, leaving the occupants to their tense, bizarre vigil.
The only thing truly breaking the silence—besides the crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of a new snack—was the relentless, mournful sound of the creature at Echo's feet. Remus was whining. A deep, drawn-out, nasal, canine lament that had been going on, virtually nonstop, for the last hour. Echo tried to ignore it, burying his nose deeper into the dense text, but the sound was grating. It wasn't the sound of pain, thanks to the potion, but the sound of profound, animalistic boredom and frustration.
Finally, Echo snapped.
"Alright, Moony, that's enough," Echo said, slamming the heavy book shut with a resounding thwack that made Shimmer twitch on the ottoman. He dropped his legs off Remus's back and twisted around to look at the werewolf. "Seriously, can you please put a lid on the whining? It's been all night."
He gestured around the shack, his voice tight with impatience. "I get it. James and the other two stooges aren't here to keep you company with their stupid games like they usually are—they're paying for the jam tart incident, remember? But you should be grateful that I am. I had to sneak out of my own detention, Moony, just to make sure you weren't by yourself on Christmas night."
Echo leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh, frustrated whisper. "And honestly, after literally doing this every month for the last six years, I would've assumed you'd get used to it? Especially since you have your wits about you and aren't terrorizing the countryside and eating or killing everything in sight."
The massive werewolf flinched. The amber eyes, so intelligent a moment before, went wide and instantly shrank away from Echo's gaze, tucking his muzzle low against the dusty floor. He let out a final, pathetic whimper that sounded exactly like a guilty dog caught with its paw in the cookie jar. The creature's entire posture screamed shame and fear. Echo froze, his anger instantly vanishing, replaced by a cold, heavy wave of self-reproach.
"Oh, shit," he muttered, his voice laced with instant regret. He dropped his book, scrambling forward and placing a hand on the werewolf's massive, bristly shoulder. "Oh, Remus, I am so sorry. That was not fair of me." He gently stroked the creature's matted fur, his voice softening with apology. "I shouldn't have said that. That was completely out of line. I'm just… I'm just really stressed out, Moony, okay? I'm sorry I took it out on you."
Echo sighed, leaning his forehead against the werewolf's shoulder. "After all the fun and excitement of the Yule Ball ended, I was left with the cold realization that I was still in the Triwizard Tournament, still had two more tasks to undertake, and didn't know anything about the third of the four tasks."
He pulled back, running a hand through his hair, which was currently a tired, neutral gray. "Apparently, the first task, which I failed, was supposed to hold a clue for the second task, —which ironically was the third task, because who knows what the real second task is now." He threw his hands up in defeat. "It's all just so confusing, and I'm terrified I'm going to screw up again, especially now that I have this ridiculous Liquid Luck I don't know how to use!"
Remus, hearing the distress in Echo's voice, slowly lifted his head. He nudged Echo's hand with his massive, wet nose, a gesture of silent, loyal comfort. Echo sighed and gently scratched the sensitive area behind the werewolf's massive ear. The creature leaned into the touch, a low, contented rumble replacing the mournful whine.
"Besides," Echo murmured, his gaze drifting towards the small, meticulously maintained fire in the grate, "it's not like you're the only one who had a bad night. The whole Yule Ball was a catastrophe, even if it was fun. I publicly failed in front of everyone, I broke a window, I almost drowned Skate, I was humiliated by a puce ball gown, even if I did manage to spin it around, and I managed to put two students in the infirmary with my shoes accidentally."
He leaned back against the wall, rubbing his temples with a weary hand. "And the whole thing with Severus and Lily... I failed on that front as well. It was all set up perfectly, and James just had to throw a jam tart." The neutral gray of his hair briefly flickered with a furious magenta. "I should have put James in a puce ballgown before I let the Kneazle attack him."
Remus let out a soft, deep huff of air that smelled faintly of old earth and dry leaves. He slowly and deliberately nudged the leather-bound book that Echo had dropped. Since he couldn't speak, he had perfected the art of subtle, physical suggestion.
"You want me to read?" Echo asked, picking up on the cue. Remus twitched his ear in confirmation. "Alright, alright," Echo conceded, opening the book back up to the page on trans-continental portkey regulations. "It's either this or listening to Sniffles dig a new tunnel under the foundation."
He began to read aloud, his voice taking on the slow, academic cadence of the text, as he described the complex bureaucratic forms required to transport livestock via international magical transit routes. Sniffles, now completely buried under the floorboards, let out a tiny, muffled chitter of success, signaling he'd found something good.
Remus listened, his large amber eyes half-closed. The rhythmic drone of Echo's voice, combined with the gentle scratching he was still receiving, had a profoundly calming effect on the massive beast. Soon, the rhythmic thrum of his breathing deepened, and he was fast asleep, a creature of pure, animalistic contentment, using one of Hogwarts' most chaotic Champions as a footrest.
Echo, satisfied that the whining had finally stopped, closed the book once more and placed it carefully on his lap. He looked down at the slumbering werewolf, a soft, affectionate pink blossoming in his hair. "Good night, Moony," he whispered. "Don't worry. I'll figure it out."
The gentle, rhythmic sound of the werewolf's breathing and the soft crackle of the fire abruptly ceased to be the only sounds. A noise, stark and out of place, sliced through the quiet companionship. It was the sound of the Shrieking Shack's massive, heavily barred oak door beginning to move.
Creeeeeeeeeak...
The grinding, rusty lament of the hinges dragged out for an eternity, signaling a deliberate, cautious intrusion. Every occupant of the room froze. Sniffles, who had been contentedly pushing a tarnished silver button into the sleeping werewolf's fur, shot out from the floorboards like a furry black projectile. He scurried, a silent streak, diving under Echo's abandoned treatise for cover. Shimmer, who had been resting near the hearth, close to the wall containing the door to the entrance room, vanished mid-stretch. The air where he had been seated shimmered faintly for a second, and then the Demiguise's soft footsteps padded silently across the stone floor as he sprinted towards the only safe haven he knew: Echo's robes.
The effect on the two larger inhabitants was even more immediate. Remus, deep in his animalistic slumber, woke instantly. His large, amber eyes flew open, wide with primal fear, and he shot to his feet in a single, fluid motion, the transition from slumbering pet to massive predator breathtakingly fast.
Echo, his aquamarine hair instantly snapping to a focused, silent indigo of pure crisis, was equally fast. He snatched the sleeping werewolf's thick scruff and hauled him backward, pressing Remus's massive, furred body against the cold, interior stone wall with surprising force. The werewolf, instinctively sensing the immense danger of exposure, didn't fight him. His powerful muscles tensed, and his body went rigid, becoming a silent, terrifying statue of russet and gray fur. They were hidden in the small, second room, a dilapidated storage area off the main lounge, obscured by the wide, rickety doorway entrance.
From the next room—the main room with the fireplace—they heard it. Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and undeniably human. They were heavy, confident steps that paused frequently, as if the intruder were surveying the desolate, dusty scene. Then came a voice, pitched low and carrying a distinct, polished French accent.
"Hello? Is anyone here?"
Echo's muscles tightened. His indigo hair flared with recognition and a spike of panic. Lucian. The Beauxbatons Champion. He must have seen Echo sneaking across the grounds to the Whomping Willow, likely after his detention ended, and somehow tracked him through the secret passage.
Echo silently cursed. They were trapped. The small storage room was a dead end. Lucian, cautious but methodical, wouldn't take long to search the small shack. Remus, hearing the human voice, let out a tiny, high-pitched whimper of distress, his muzzle beginning to open. The sound was instantly cut off. Echo's hand shot out, clamping around the werewolf's snout in a tight, unyielding grip.
"Quiet, Moony. Quiet!" Echo hissed, the word a soundless explosion of breath. His eyes, fixed on the doorway, were desperate. "Let me think. Stay quiet, or you'll ruin everything."
His mind, which usually specialized in witty comebacks and spontaneous chaos, raced, sifting through options and rejecting them as fast as they appeared. No room for a complex vanishing spell. The only way is out, and Lucian is blocking the main exit. A desperate, high-risk idea flashed. Diversion.
Echo leaned in close to the werewolf's ear, dropping his voice to a whisper barely audible over the thump of his own heart. "Shimmer, listen to me. Go to the other side of the room. Make some small noise—a dropped cup, anything. Keep it low. You're invisible, you'll be fine."
A faint, silky touch on his robes confirmed the Demiguise had heard and agreed.
Echo then nudged the area under the floor where Sniffles was burrowed. "Sniffles! Get your butt out here and cause chaos in the main room. Make some noise, then scurry into this room and exit straight through the main door. Lure him away from the main door! Now!"
A small, muffled chitter of agreement came from the floor. Seconds later, the plan went into action. From the far side of the main lounge, there was a soft tinkle—the sound of a small shard of glass being deliberately flicked across the stone floor.
"Who is there?" Lucian's voice, sharp with caution, immediately moved towards the sound.
Thump-thump-thump. The sound of the Niffler's tiny, frantic feet on the dusty floor of the main room, immediately followed by the loud, audible sound of a rusted tin being kicked and skittering across the floor.
Lucian cursed softly in French, his footsteps now rapid as he moved towards the entrance. "It's an animal. A wild creature, perhaps?" He sounded annoyed and slightly wary. "Stay put, or you will regret it."
The sounds retreated. The shrieking door groaned again, and the sound of heavy footsteps faded rapidly, running off into the night toward the grounds. A long, agonizing moment of silence passed. Echo held the pose, rigid against the wall, listening until he was certain the footsteps were long gone.
"Okay," Echo breathed, his hand slowly relaxing its death grip on Remus's muzzle. He gently pushed the massive werewolf away from the wall. "That bought us maybe ten minutes, max. He'll realize he's been led on a wild goose chase."
Remus, no longer whimpering, rubbed his snout against Echo's chest in thanks, his great amber eyes worriedly fixed on the doorway. Echo's hair was a thoughtful, analytical blue. He looked around the small, dirty room, searching for an exit that didn't exist. Echo's eyes, the color of thoughtful, analytical blue, darted frantically around the small, empty storage room again. Dead end. No windows. No hiding spots big enough for a werewolf. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then snapped them open, his gaze falling directly onto the massive, furry form of Remus.
Remus, rigid and silent, was a portrait of suppressed terror, his eyes flicking constantly toward the doorway. An idea. High-risk, utterly insane, and requiring a monstrous amount of finesse, but an idea nonetheless. Echo snatched his wand from his sleeve—a quick, silent motion. The analytical blue in his hair deepened to a sharp, focused indigo as he channeled his Beast Magic, not for defense, but for projection. He reached out with his mind, past the confines of the shack, through the secret tunnel, and out into the vast, snow-covered landscape of the Forbidden Forest. He found the presence he was looking for: large, powerful, and distinctly lupine.
With a silent, non-verbal surge of power, Echo executed the summon. There was a sudden, violent CRACK of displacement in the small, enclosed room, followed by the pungent smell of pine and cold earth. A massive, snow-white wolf materialized instantly, startlingly large and thick-coated. The beast was half the size of Remus in his werewolf form on all fours, with powerful shoulders and piercing, ice-blue eyes. It shook its heavy coat once, scattering dust and debris, and then it saw the russet-and-gray form of Remus.
A low, guttural snarl ripped from the white wolf's throat, a sound of pure, territorial aggression. Echo reacted instantly, dropping his wand and surging forward. He clamped both hands around the massive white muzzle, his fingers digging into the soft fur, and pressed his forehead against the wolf's.
"Quiet!" Echo hissed, the word laced with pure, desperate intent, the indigo in his hair blazing with absolute command. "Calm. He is not a monster. He is Remus, and he has his wits about him. He needs your help, right now. Be quiet."
The wolf's massive body tensed, struggling for a moment against the unyielding force of the Champion's touch. However, the intense surge of Beast Magic, combined with the clear, rational command, was effective. The fierce snarl faded into a low whine, and the ice-blue eyes softened, the predatory gleam replaced by a strange, knowing understanding. The wolf went utterly still, seemingly agreeing.
Echo slowly released the muzzle and then, without turning, called out in a low, quiet voice. "Pip."
With a nearly inaudible pop that nevertheless made the two wolves jump, the small house-elf materialized instantly.
"Pip needs raw meat, please," Echo whispered, keeping his eyes on the doorway. "A large, messy pile. From the castle kitchens. Put it right here." He pointed to the center of the small room, furthest from the doorway.
Pip, his large eyes wide but filled with immediate obedience, gave a tiny nod. "Pip is bringing meat now, Champion Echo, sir!" And with another tiny pop, he was gone.
Echo turned back to the two large canines. "Remus, you first. Get in that dresser." He gestured to a massive, dilapidated wardrobe standing against the back wall. "You too, big guy. Don't make a sound, and don't come out until I say so. You have to trust me, Moony."
Remus, his amber eyes still wide with anxiety, looked at the giant, looming white wolf, then at the dresser, and finally at Echo's resolute face. He let out a soft, low grunt—a gesture of profound, reluctant submission—and with surprising ease, turned and climbed into the antique wardrobe. The white wolf followed, its massive body sliding silently in behind him. Echo yanked the wardrobe door shut just as Pip reappeared with a final, slightly louder pop. The house-elf was balancing a tray that held an immense, steaming, and profoundly bloody pile of raw meat, possibly an entire quarter of beef. He placed the tray on the floor where Echo had pointed.
"Pip has brought the meat, Echo, sir. Pip is hiding now."
"Good. Hide, Pip. And don't react to anything you see or hear. Anything," Echo warned. Pip nodded, and with a focused blink, his small body shimmered and vanished.
Echo took one deep, fortifying breath, his thoughtful blue hair flaring to a chaotic, desperate green as his heart hammered in his chest. Time to sell it. The plan was simple: Lucian was in a house, unaware that a werewolf was nearby. Echo would show him one, just not Remus. He would use his Beast Magic to assume the form of a white wolf, transforming into a werewolf-like creature.
The scent of the raw meat was immediately overwhelming. Echo knelt, his eyes blazing with a mixture of terror and determination. He dipped his head toward the pile of meat, pushing aside the fear and revulsion. He had to make it convincing.
With a sudden, furious lunge, Echo plunged his face directly into the pile of raw meat. A loud, wet, tearing sound filled the air. He began to bite and chew, savagely pulling at the meat, the frantic, desperate sound of a starved predator consuming its kill echoing loudly through the shack's silent, oppressive air. The grotesque sounds of his loud, messy feast were so repulsive and so violently animalistic that they instantly drowned out the soft sounds of Lucian's cautious return.
Lucian heard it. He's coming back. Echo continued to tear, the blood and sinew covering his face, his Beast Magic beginning the silent, brutal transformation beneath his skin. Now all he had to do was sell the performance. The grinding hinges of the main door scraped once more, a much more confident sound this time. Lucian's footsteps, no longer cautious, were heavy and purposeful as he entered the main lounge and approached the storage room entrance. He stopped dead, his polished formal shoes visible just outside the threshold of the small room.
The only illumination came from the sliver of moonlight spilling through the one high, small window and the weak, flickering firelight from the hearth. It was enough to reveal the grotesque scene at the center of the small storage area. A figure was kneeling on the floor, back to the doorway, violently consuming a massive pile of raw, glistening meat. The sounds were horrifyingly primal: a low, continuous growl, punctuated by wet, ripping tears as the flesh was devoured. The raw, metallic scent of blood hung thick in the air, overpowering the dusty smell of the shack. The figure was clad only in a pair of dark boxer briefs, and the bright, desperate green of his hair stood out starkly against the surrounding gloom.
Lucian's refined composure shattered instantly.
"Mon Dieu!" Lucian gasped, his voice tight with revulsion and immediate panic. He took a hesitant step back, one hand flying instinctively to the lapel of his Beauxbatons uniform. "Is—is that you, Echo? What in the bloody hell are you doing in this horrible place?"
At the sound of his name, the frantic, savage feasting ceased. The consuming figure froze, utterly still, the silence of the sudden stop more chilling than the preceding noise. It was the absolute, unnatural stillness of an animal that had been startled mid-kill. Slowly, agonizingly, the figure turned its head just enough to bring a terrified, wide blue eye to bear on Lucian.
A large, bloody piece of raw meat—a massive, dripping chunk of tendon and muscle—was still clamped between his teeth.
Drip… drip…
The piece of meat slipped from the boy's jaws and dropped with a soft, wet splat onto the dusty floor. Echo slowly, deliberately, began to rise to his feet, his gaze never leaving the French Champion. He wiped the excess blood from his chin and mouth with the back of a hand, a movement that was too slow, too measured, for a human. His hair, the chaotic, desperate green, solidified into a profound, terrifying indigo. He took a slow, silent step toward Lucian, his bare feet padding softly on the stone.
"Stop, stop it, Echo!" Lucian stammered, raising both hands defensively. His face was white with shock, and he stumbled backward a second step. "Arrête de plaisanter! Reste en arrière, espèce de brute! Stop kidding around! Stay back, you brute!"
Echo ignored him, taking another slow, creeping step forward, bringing himself out of the deep shadow and into the weak, silver path of the moonlight from the high window. His eyes, fixed and unwavering, now burned with a chilling, predatory intensity. As he crossed the line of moonlight, Echo's entire body seemed to seize. A sudden, violent tremor wracked his frame. He slammed his bloodied hands against his temples, letting out a sharp, guttural sound—a mixture of a grunt and a wheezing choke.
"AUGH!" Echo yelled, the sound ragged and filled with agony. He collapsed to his knees, his torso curling inward as if fighting an internal parasite.
Lucian's fear momentarily gave way to a surge of pure, human concern. "Echo! What is wrong? Are you sick? I will get Professor Dumbledore, attendez—wait!"
Lucian was made to rush forward.
"GRRAAAH!"
Echo's body snapped upright, and a ferocious, animalistic growl erupted from his throat. He swiped violently with one arm—a blur of motion that Lucian barely managed to dodge, the boy's bloodied nails missing his face by inches. Echo's eyes, still fixed on Lucian, rolled sickeningly into his head, leaving only white sclera. A thick, gurgling sound replaced his voice, followed by a pathetic, wounded whimper.
The transformation began. Echo focused his entire mind on the hidden, silent white wolf, pulling the creature's essence—its power, its musculature, its fur, its very form—into himself. The wolf, concealed in the wardrobe, let out a silent, internal roar of protest that Echo completely ignored.
The change was agonizing and brutal to witness. Echo's spine elongated and thickened with an audible, wet crack. His hands doubled in size, the fingers merging and becoming massive, clawed paws. His legs twisted, the bones grinding as they changed orientation, forcing him down onto his knuckles. The skin stretched and tore, replaced instantly by a thick, coarse coat of mixed white and gray fur that sprouted from every inch of his body as his clothing tore in several sections. His jaw pushed forward into a long, powerful muzzle, teeth growing into massive, needle-sharp canines.
In the span of seconds, the boy was gone. Where Echo had knelt, a huge, silent, terrifying werewolf-like creature now stood. It was taller than a man on all fours, a terrifying hybrid of Echo's own Beast Magic and the pure, predatory power of the summoned wolf. It was massive, thickly muscled, and covered in snow-white fur stained grotesquely with Echo's own blood from the raw meat. The transformation complete, the creature let out a low, challenging growl—a sound that shook the very dust from the rafters.
Lucian, the elegant, composed Champion of Beauxbatons, stared at the massive, breathing horror in front of him. His face was a mask of unadulterated, mind-breaking terror. He screamed—a high, piercing, truly pathetic sound—and stumbled backward, spinning on his heel to flee into the night.
The enormous, bloodied creature watched Lucian's frantic retreat for a long, silent moment, the triumphant terror in its eyes gradually fading. The sound of the French Champion's panicked footsteps vanishing into the distance was the only sound besides its own ragged, heavy breathing. Then, the creature's immense, wolf-like body sagged slightly in relief. It let out a sound that was less a growl and more a tired, exasperated sigh.
"Well, that takes care of that little issue," Echo's completely normal, human voice drawled, sounding utterly exhausted and faintly annoyed, cutting through the silence of the shack.
The massive, furred form shuddered violently, the stolen Beast Magic violently rejecting its temporary host. The process of the reverse transfiguration was immediate and brutal. The huge, white-and-gray paws rapidly shrank, the claws retracting, the massive bones grinding back into the familiar shape of human hands. The thick fur receded as if sucked back into the skin, the long, powerful muzzle collapsed, and the sharp canines melted back into normal teeth.
With a final, sickening CRUNCH, the massive creature shrank down, collapsing onto the dusty floor. In its place, Echo lay panting heavily, sweat beading on his bare, bloody skin, his hair a violently spasming pattern of green, red, and blue. He lay there for a moment, completely still, before letting out a high-pitched, involuntary YELP of pain.
"AUGH! God, that hurt!" he groaned, clutching his ribs and pushing himself up onto one elbow, his body shaking with residual magical strain. "Note to self: rapid, full-body transfiguration of that magnitude requires a full day of recovery, not a minute of quiet desperation."
He took a few slow, steadying breaths, the chaotic colors in his hair finally settling into a tired, neutral gray. He looked around the small storage room, his eyes catching the light reflecting off the dresser.
"You can come out now, Moony," Echo said, his voice still ragged. "The coast is clear. Your little admirer won't be back for quite some time, I promise you."
The massive wardrobe door groaned as it was shoved open from the inside. Remus, in his towering werewolf form, backed out of the cramped space, his powerful shoulders scraping against the jamb. The moment he was fully out, his massive amber eyes—the sentient, human eyes of Remus Lupin—swept over the room. They landed instantly on Echo, who was still slumped on the floor, panting, smeared with raw meat, and shaking with the aftermath of the transformation. Remus's posture was a complex mix of terror and profound concern. His muzzle was tucked low, his ears were pinned back in fear, but his gaze was fixed on Echo's face with a panicked, worried intensity.
"What's with the face, Moony?" Echo managed, pushing himself upright with a groan. "You look like you just watched me wrestle a Grindylow."
The werewolf didn't reply. Instead, with a low, desperate whimper that sounded heartbreakingly human, he lunged.
Echo's tired, gray hair instantly flashed to a startled, defensive magenta. "Whoa! Remus, calm down! I said I'm fine, I—"
He braced for the attack, but no claws materialized. Instead, the massive werewolf slammed into him, wrapping two enormous, shaggy arms around Echo's torso in a desperate, crushing hug. Remus buried his huge muzzle into Echo's shoulder, letting out a continuous, mournful whine that resonated deep in Echo's chest. The smell of old earth and dry leaves mixed with the revolting stench of raw meat. Echo was stunned. The magenta in his hair softened to a bewildered, gentle rose. He slowly lifted his arms and hugged the enormous creature back, patting his thick fur.
"Hey, hey, what is this all about, Moony?" Echo murmured, his voice confused. "You're usually not this… touchy after transformation. What got into you?"
The rhythmic, high-pitched whines continued, burrowing into Echo's robes. Then, the realization hit him with the weight of a sudden stone. The horrifying vision of the transformation—the violent contortion, the bones grinding, the snapping out of control—was what Remus went through every single month, only this time he had been a witness. He had seen the terror of becoming a monster. Echo's arms tightened around the werewolf. The gentle rose in his hair deepened with instant, overwhelming sympathy.
"Oh, Moony," Echo breathed, his voice laced with self-reproach. "Did… did you see that? Did you see the transfiguration I went through?"
Remus pulled back just enough to nod, his amber eyes wide and glistening, then pressed his muzzle back against Echo's shoulder and let out a long, pathetic whine.
"Did it scare you?" Echo asked, already knowing the answer.
The response was a high-pitched, miserable yelp.
Echo sighed, resting his chin on the werewolf's head. "I'm so sorry, Moony. I am so sorry you had to see that. It must be… like seeing what happens to you every full moon, only from the outside. You saw yourself, didn't you?"
Remus only pressed closer, the sheer misery of the noise suggesting a deep, internal well of pain and empathy.
"And honestly, transforming really hurt," Echo confessed, feeling a fresh wave of aches course through his body. "That must be what you feel, every single month, even with the Wolfsbane. I can't imagine enduring that pain and fear all the time."
Remus simply held him, the hug less a gesture of thanks and more a desperate, silent need for shared comfort. Echo couldn't tell if the werewolf was holding him for his own sake—to ground himself in a human presence after witnessing his own terror—or for Echo's sake, offering silent support for the fresh magical strain. Echo didn't question it. He just let the massive, gentle creature hold him in the dark, blood-smelling shack, absorbing the strange, painful moment of shared experience.
A soft scritch-scritch sound drew Echo's attention. The massive, snow-white wolf, the temporary magical template, padded silently out from behind the wardrobe, its ice-blue eyes fixed on Echo. It let out a low, respectful huff.
Echo gently pulled his head back from Remus's shoulder. "Thank you, big guy," he whispered to the white wolf, his voice raw. "You saved our asses. I couldn't have done that without you."
He reached out and gently scratched the thick fur behind the wolf's ears. "Go on, now. Back to your own territory. And don't tell anyone about the giant puce ballgown."
The white wolf gave a low, rumbling acknowledgment, turned, and with a soft CRACK of displacement, vanished, leaving the scent of pine and cold snow in its wake. The absence of the white wolf, however, left a sudden, immediate void. The raw meat and adrenaline, held back by the terror, now rebelled. Echo's stomach gave a massive, churning lurch. A thick, undeniable gurgling sound echoed loudly in the small room.
Echo instantly stiffened, his hair flashing to a sickly, panicked yellow-green. "Moony, you gotta let me go," he croaked, pushing feebly against the werewolf's chest. "The… the raw meat and my sudden height change aren't agreeing with me. I'm going to barf all over your beautiful, furry shoulder if you don't."
Remus, instantly understanding, released him, backing up just as Pip, anticipating the need, materialized with a quiet pop, balancing a battered, old metal bucket.
Echo didn't hesitate. He fell to his knees, snatching the bucket from the house-elf, and immediately plunged into a violent, protracted session of dry heaving and messy retching. The stench of raw beef, bile, and stale cider was instantly overpowering. Pip, ever the dedicated servant, simply hovered silently beside him, occasionally patting his shoulder with a trembling, tiny hand.
After a long minute, Echo finally sagged back, breathless and slick with sweat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his hair settling back into a tired, neutral gray.
"I'm… I'm fine," he managed, pushing the bucket away with a faint kick. He coughed, then pushed himself to his feet.
He pulled out his wand, aiming it at his body. "Scourgify, Reparo, Finite Incantatem," he muttered, combining the cleaning, mending, and reversing charms in a single, silent wave.
The raw meat, blood, and sweat instantly vanished from his skin. His dark robes returned to their original state. The various tears and rips in his clothes from the earlier transformation were instantly mended, leaving his previously destroyed suit trousers and shirt restored to pristine condition. He tucked his wand away and looked at the massive werewolf, whose amber eyes were still fixed on him with worried intensity.
"Listen, Moony, I can't stay," Echo said, his voice firming up. "I need to put the final touches on my plan. Lucian won't stay gone forever; he'll figure out that was a staged attack. I need to make sure he—or anyone—doesn't bother coming back here. Not ever again."
He turned to the two small magical companions. "Sniffles, Shimmer, stay with Remus. Keep him company. Don't let him whine, and don't let him get into the cider. Got it?"
The Demiguise gave a sober nod from his invisible perch, and the Niffler, now on top of Remus's back, chittered in agreement. Echo started toward the doorway, but before he could step out, Remus's massive, clawed hand shot out, grasping his forearm. The werewolf didn't hold him tightly, but the gesture was clearly pleading. Remus looked at Echo, his enormous amber eyes wide and luminous, the ultimate sad puppy dog gaze, begging him to stay. Echo's resolve almost broke. The tired gray in his hair flickered with a surge of sympathetic, distressed lavender.
"Moony, stop it," Echo pleaded softly, pulling his arm gently away. "Don't look at me like that. I want to stay. Believe me, I want to curl up right here and sleep for two days. But I have to do this. You need peace, and the only way you're going to get it is if I guarantee that no one, ever again, thinks to sneak into the Shrieking Shack. I'll be quick. I promise I'll be right back."
Remus whined once more, the sound heartbreakingly full of reluctance and fear. He slowly, agonizingly released Echo's arm. The amber eyes, so human in their distress, followed Echo as he took his first step toward the main room. Remus then lowered his massive head, tucking his muzzle between his paws in a gesture of profound resignation, a silent promise to wait.
Echo gave him one final, swift pat on the head, the gesture full of gratitude and apology. "I won't be long, Moony. Promise."
He didn't wait for another plea. Echo turned and strode out of the cramped storage room, his footsteps light and purposeful as he moved through the dusty main room toward the heavy oak door. He paused only long enough to scoop the velvet-bound treatise off the floor and tuck it into his robes, ensuring no trace of his presence remained. Then, with a quiet, decisive click, he closed the main door and was gone, leaving the Shrieking Shack to its desolate, furry sentinel.
Meanwhile, Lucian, the Beauxbatons Champion, was a portrait of sheer, unadulterated panic. He was no longer the composed, elegant figure of the Yule Ball; he was a terrified, winded mess. His impeccably tailored uniform was torn at the knee, his fine leather shoes were scuffed and covered in snow, and his polished hair was completely disheveled. He burst from the mouth of the secret tunnel near the Whomping Willow, sprinted across the snow-dusted lawn, and didn't stop running until he reached the massive oak doors of the Great Hall.
The doors, still open from the Yule Ball, offered a view of a scene of relative calm. Supper was in session—a late Christmas night affair—and the hall was filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware. Lucian slammed through the doors, sliding several feet on the polished stone floor, his hands flying out to brace himself. He scrambled upright, his eyes wide and vacant with shock, and pointed a trembling, dramatic finger at the center of the hall.
"A werewolf!" Lucian shrieked, the word tearing from his throat, cutting through the entire hall's collective noise like a knife. "There is a werewolf! A massive, bloody, horrible werewolf in the grounds of Hogwarts!"
Silence. Complete, total silence. Students froze mid-chew, professors mid-sentence. Then, the silence broke into chaos. A hundred students screamed and leaped from their benches, looking frantically toward the shattered window. The noise was instantly deafening.
But the panic was not universal. From the Durmstrang table, a chorus of deep, Slavic-accented cheers erupted. The students, led by the imposing figure of Viktor Krum, stood up, their faces alight with an excited, almost predatory enthusiasm. They started pulling wands and knives from their robes, their eyes gleaming. "A hunt! Let us hunt the beast!" Krum's voice boomed, his enthusiasm for a fresh source of chaos infectious.
A massive stampede was seconds away.
"SILENCE!"
Albus Dumbledore's voice, magically amplified tenfold, crashed down on the Great Hall like thunder. The entire ceiling flickered, and the ambient noise was instantly choked off. The sudden, immense pressure of the silencing spell caused the students to fall back into their seats with an audible collective whumpf, their mouths snapping shut. The Durmstrang boys, looking annoyed but immediately obedient, lowered their weapons.
Dumbledore, his expression severe but his eyes blazing with alarm, fixed his gaze on the pale, gasping French Champion. "Mr. Lucian," he said, his voice now dangerously calm. "Compose yourself. Where did you encounter this… creature?"
Lucian, still shaking, pointed vaguely back toward the grounds. "In the old, collapsing house! Near the big, angry tree!"
At the Head Table, Professor McGonagall's face went white. She shot a quick, nervous glance at Dumbledore, her lips tightening into a thin line. Dumbledore merely smoothed his silver beard; his usual twinkle momentarily dimmed as he processed the information.
"The Shrieking Shack," Dumbledore confirmed, his voice neutral. "And this creature… could you describe it, Mr. Lucian?"
"It was enormous! Taller than a man! Shaggy, thick fur, blood all over its face, growling like a demon!" Lucian stammered, pulling himself up to his full height. He took a massive, shuddering gasp for air, his eyes darting frantically around the room, expecting the monster to materialize at any moment.
Dumbledore laced his fingers, leaning forward slightly. The dread in his heart was a cold stone. He knew only one student who would ever be near the Shrieking Shack at this hour, and only one who could be transformed. He asked the question he most dreaded, his voice laced with forced calm. "And… do you know who this creature was, Mr. Lucian?"
Lucian swallowed, taking one final, dramatic breath as the moment of terror gave way to a strange, horrified certainty. He pointed a finger that no longer trembled, stabbing the air toward the student tables.
"It was Echo!" Lucian yelled, the name a triumphant, self-righteous explosion of pure fear.
The Great Hall erupted once more in a dizzying wave of gasps and shocked whispers.
"Bonjour,"
The soft, simple greeting, spoken in flawless, almost bored French, came from directly behind the terrified Champion. Lucian instantly let out a high-pitched, girlish shriek that cracked on the final syllable. He collapsed onto the floor in a heap of fear and torn robes, scrambling wildly to turn around. Hovering over him, looking perfectly relaxed and completely immaculate, stood Echo. He was dressed in his normal, dark grey Hogwarts student robes, his hair a serene, neutral grey, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. There was not a single trace of blood, mud, raw meat, or the grotesque werewolf transfiguration on him.
"Mon Dieu!" Lucian whimpered, pointing a terrified, shaking finger at Echo's pristine robes.
Echo blinked, his expression one of polite confusion. "Yes? Is something the matter, Lucian? You seem to have lost your balance."
Lucian scrambled backward, dragging himself across the stone floor in pure terror. "The werewolf!"
Echo frowned, a look of theatrical bewilderment crossing his face. He looked around the Great Hall, craning his neck as if searching the rafters.
"A werewolf?" Echo asked, his voice ringing with innocent concern. "Where? Did one of the fifth-years let their pet out again?" He turned back to Lucian. "The Shrieking Shack is notorious for containing stray animals, you know. I hope you didn't get too close. Those things are quite dangerous, especially when they are feeding."
Lucian stared, his jaw working as he tried to reconcile the monstrous vision in the Shack with the clean, calm boy in front of him. "It's you!" he shrieked, pointing directly at Echo's chest.
Echo's bewildered eyes followed the finger. He paused, looked down at his own completely normal form, and then pointed a thumb at his chest, his expression one of innocent disbelief.
"Me?" Echo asked, his voice carrying the perfect, light tone of a student mildly offended by a ridiculous accusation. "Are you quite certain, Lucian? You think I am the blood-soaked, feral beast eating a quarter of raw beef in the Shrieking Shack?"
"Oui!" Lucian screamed, his voice hoarse, tears starting to leak from his eyes. "Oui, c'était toi! Yes, it was you! The blood, the fur, the growling—"
Echo's eyes, the neutral gray of his hair hardening to a cool, dismissive blue, swept past Lucian and focused on the Head Table. His gaze settled specifically on Madam Maxime, the imposing Headmistress of Beauxbatons, whose face was a mask of cold fury and professional embarrassment.
"Madam Maxime," Echo called out, his voice loud enough to carry but pitched with an air of casual, concerned observation. He gestured toward the gibbering Champion at his feet. "I don't mean to judge your culture's ways... actually, no, I absolutely mean to judge your culture's ways. But you might want to consider raising your students' legal drinking age by a few years. Or maybe check their wine for hallucinogenic toadstools before they cross the channel. He's clearly experiencing a vivid, stress-induced psychotic break from whatever he consumed."
"Echo!" Professor McGonagall snapped from the Head Table, her voice sharp with a familiar, scolding tone.
Echo turned his head just enough to acknowledge her, the cool blue in his hair deepening to an analytical, determined shade. "With all due respect, Professor, I'm critical of every culture, especially the one I currently reside in. Do you truly think the UK is some picture-perfect prize, incapable of producing drunken, hallucinating messes? Because it's not. Look at him!"
Lucian, still huddled on the floor, began to babble, his words a desperate, incoherent mix of French and English, punctuated by terrified gasps. "Le loup-garou! The blood, the raw meat, he—he changed! C'est un monstre!"
Echo sighed dramatically, the cool blue in his hair softening to a gentle, sympathetic rose. He extended a hand toward the trembling Champion. "Come on, Lucian. Up you go."
He pulled the young man gently to his feet, speaking in a low, soothing voice that cut through the silence he had created. "You're fine, my friend. You've just had a nasty fright. Someone, and I mean someone, must have slipped something nasty into your food or drink. It's a common prank. You're not seeing werewolves; you're hallucinating because of a potion. It's an illusion, nothing more. How about I take you to the Hospital Wing right now for Madam Pomfrey to look you over?"
Echo turned and directed his voice toward the Head Table again, specifically at the Hogwarts nurse. "Madam Pomfrey, I am terribly sorry to disturb your supper, but this boy needs immediate attention."
Madam Pomfrey, who had been watching the scene with a long-suffering expression that was already calculating the required potions, sighed deeply, pushing her plate away. "It's fine, Mr. Echo. Just get him to the Hospital Wing. And try not to cause any more spectacles on the way, if you please."
"Of course, Madam Pomfrey! No more spectacles!" Echo promised cheerfully. He then clapped his hands once. "Pip!"
The house-elf materialized with a small, silent pop near the Head Table.
"Pip, please be a dear and gather Madam Pomfrey's food and goblet and take it all to the Hospital Wing immediately. She'll need the sustenance when she's done treating the Champion's terrible hallucinations."
Pip nodded and, with a quick, appreciative glance at the abandoned sticky toffee pudding, began to levitate the tray. Echo put a supportive arm around Lucian's shoulders. The French Champion continued to babble and twitch, his eyes fixed on Echo's face with a profound, terrified confusion, unable to reconcile the clean, calm demeanor with the blood-soaked monster he had just seen. Echo, acting as if everything were perfectly normal, pulled the boy gently toward the Great Hall doors.
"Don't worry, Lucian," Echo murmured, his voice gentle and full of convincing concern. "A few Dreamless Sleep Potions and you'll forget this little… misadventure ever happened."
He ushered the visibly traumatized Champion out of the Great Hall and down the corridor. Once he had deposited Lucian safely into the capable hands of Madam Pomfrey, who immediately ushered him behind a screen for an extensive examination, Echo straightened his robes. He walked down the deserted corridor until he reached an empty stone alcove. The gentle rose in his hair instantly snapped to a sharp, triumphant gold.
Echo let out a long, slow breath, a deep, satisfied sigh that dissolved the last of the nervous tension. "Well," he muttered to the empty air, tucking his hands into his pockets. "That takes care of that. Now to get the three gits out of detention."