Her body will lie in the Chamber forever. A lie, a trap – if his plan went ahead, it would be their bodies, those of her friends and teachers, that would rot beneath the castle. No, the Darkness had no intention of killing her – she was his Red Wolf of the Moors, after all, feared by every wizard of the highlands. They knew it was her, of course, it didn’t take much to put together that the red wolf that terrorised the towns and crofters with the one who slipped the leash on full moon nights – so they knew something was wrong. But the Ministry barricade they’d called for help had failed, and now the Darkness kept Ginny all to himself, wandering the wild places around the castle, returning only at night to a bloodied nest in the Chamber far below.

Ginny Weasley was a ghost, a missing person long before he’d forced her to leave that message – she’d been as good as dead for months, living in the hills and then the chamber once the full moon had subsided, sneaking out into the castle under cover of darkness to steal potion ingredients and food. For the Darkness had a plan, alright – he didn’t want to be beholden to the moon to have his monster.

Had it been the full moon, her would-be rescuers might have been suspicious, they might have armed themselves better. But they were expecting a dying twelve-year-old girl, not the Red Wolf herself or at least in part, half-transformed into none other than Rhiannon, their shapes all twisted up with that of the wolf, lurking in the green-lit gloom far beneath Hogwarts. Trapped deep in her own mind, Ginny knew they were there – Luna and Rhiannon, carrying the mingled scents of others with them, and her heart sank. Rhiannon – either the Darkness would kill her, or make a second monster for his collection, but she had walked right into his trap. He wanted Rhiannon Potter dead to the world. And the most agonising part of the possession was that if the Darkness willed it, Ginny would be present and watching for every moment of that death, whichever path he chose.

The hours of waiting were agony, with Ginny only dimly aware of her surroundings as her own blood dripped from her fingertips onto the wet stone floor. She had built a nest for herself down here, dragged in bracken and branches from the forest through a narrow side tunnel, and though she could never be comfortable with the Darkness riding just beneath her skin, she lay there as settled and still as possible, heart beating too loud in her ears and the glass jar of clear, semi-luminous green-and-gold potion digging into her too-hollow stomach. She hardly recalled the taste of regular food, it had been almost two months now since that first horrific turn, since the Darkness had used her as callously as a sword and then refused to let her even return to her own bed. All of it led up to this night, this long wait – and the best that Ginny could hope for was that Rhiannon might kill her instead.

Suddenly, somewhere deep beneath the castle, there was a terrible crash and a chorus of distant screams, and from her nest Ginny felt the very foundation of the castle groan and shift, and with it the sick weight Ginny had been nursing since writing that message settled deep in her stomach. Her rescue party had arrived. Perhaps they’d found another Parselmouth – it stood to reason any of the other Weasleys could be, or perhaps they had simply blown open the entrance when they found it. Either way, she knew in her blood that Rhiannon was coming – some instinctual sense had tied them together ever since that ill-fated afternoon in the second-floor girls’ bathroom.

Are you eager, monster mine? The Darkness mocked her, carrying itself with the air of a zookeeper rattling the bars of a tiger’s cage. Are you hungry for his blood? I feel what you do, little wolf, and I am ready. Go on. Take the potion. Become my monster.

Ginny hissed and ground her teeth. She knew what the result would be, she knew he would succeed in forcing her eventually, but it was not in her nature to submit without a fight – not ever, no matter how hopeless a situation.

Take it, you stubborn little bitch, the Darkness growled, and though Ginny was prepared for it she could not entirely suppress an agonised groan as it bore down on her nervous system and set her limbs to seizing, clawing involuntarily at the branches of the nest for something – anything – to relieve the pain.

“I... won’t... give you... the satisfaction!” Ginny ground out, then spat out a gob of blood, she must have bitten her tongue when the pain first go on. Her vision had changed since being turned, usually a haze of greys, greens and yellows, but right now she had only a grey haze as she writhed and coughed in the nest.

Fine – then I’ll do it myself. It’s a wonder why you even bother with these resistances, petty little thing – in the end, I will always win.

Ginny groaned and wheezed, desperately fighting against the hold it had on her body but try as she might, there was no beating the inexorable pressure as the Darkness forced her very muscles to his service. The jar was uncorked, the strange herbal and yet somehow personal scent flooded the dimly-lit chamber and it was all Ginny could do not to choke on it as the Darkness forced her to drink.

The pain that swarmed through her body this time was different, electric, burning, and so strong that just like each change with the moon, the Darkness’ hold was chased from Ginny’s body as a new, horrible transformation swept through in its’ place. Ginny’s long hair, lank and matted from her time in the Chamber, grew wild and coarse, then straightened out again, her skin itched and rippled as it struggled to decide which of two colours and textures it should be, her whole body right down to her organs rippling, tearing, twisting back and forth until finally all Ginny could do was scream, tears streaming down her face as she sobbed and shrieked in breathless agony and terror as she felt the all-too-familiar bellowing clamour of the wolf begin to encroach upon her fragile mind.

In some ways, Ginny Weasley feared the wolf more than she feared the Darkness – one of them she could fight, and even hold off for a time. But the wolf had torn a blood-soaked trail across the highlands, left the mark of its jaws upon so many innocent people – and unlike when the Darkness took control, she had memories of it. Not just of watching, but of doing – killing people and their livestock, turning their children – the Darkness delighted in the destruction he could wreak with her body as his tool.

Oh, of course when the moon had died away he had lost his weapon, and returned to having her haunt the castle corridors, an uncatchable ghost with a stolen Invisibility Cloak and a deadly serpent in tow, but he’d found a solution to all that – in the most literal sense, she thought grimly, coughing on the sweet minty aftertaste of the potion as her very throat shifted, twisted and closed, her lungs stretched and her ribs cracked, her very spine snapped and reformed. Every bone in her body, every organ, every muscle, broke itself and reshaped beneath her tortured skin, still bubbling disconcertingly, her very eyes grew misshapen and she screamed silently until her very jaw came unstuck as her skull reshaped itself – but not enough, she was trapped in this terrible half shape and all she could do was claw at the nest, at the stone, at herself in a desperate, doomed attempt to escape the howling cacophony of the wolf that bore down upon her.

The red wolf of the moors lay in the torn nest, trembling with agony as her body finally decided where the divides between her shape and the other’s would be. For a moment she opened her eyes, but the fragmented field of her damaged vision was so painful she closed them again.

Well that’s a setback. But no matter. I will break you, and you will watch him die beneath the weight of your own teeth, the Darkness hissed, its voice strange and sibilant in its menace.

The red wolf did not understand every word – wolves did not speak. But something about the heavy presence’s intent drilled into her brain and she bared her teeth, claws flexing against bracken, branch and stone. She understood enough – understood that this thing that had haunted her since her birth now intended to force her to kill part of her pack – the night-fur-kin who had tried to save her that first night. That could not happen, and she would fight her monster until it was forced to kill her, if need be.

There was a rustle and a clacking of breaking bones and the red wolf raised her head to hear better, curling her lip in disgust at the sensation. Everything was the wrong shape, every movement restricted and painful, but she dragged herself into a crouching position, ready to move if need be. The monster was in her head – but out there was her pack, and as she took in a ragged breath she could smell them better now. The night-fur-kin, tied to her heart, and another, also bound by heart to the night-fur-kin, which made them as good as pack. The red wolf would not hurt them. Not willingly. Not ever.

Oh, stop that petty resistance – you know I will break you in the end. Either way, they will both die. Wouldn’t you rather their suffering be short? The whisper-voice-hate in her head hissed, provoking a growl from the wolf. She would rather they not suffer at all.

Low voices, real ones this time, caught on the red wolf’s misshapen ears and while she did not catch any of the words, she could hear the fear and horror in her night-heart-kin’s soft voice – terror, perhaps even of the red wolf herself.

The red wolf whined, patchy hackles already bristling in fear and pain as she felt the whisper-hate-thing bear down on her. You will comply, it hissed viciously, but the red wolf would not. Agony flooded her too-thin frame but pain was all she had known of her life, and she resisted him as staunchly as any great warrior could have. The red wolf’s muscles twitched, twisted and moved against her will, hauling her aching body into a standing position, but she locked her knees and dug her claws into the aged stone. The wolf did not know words, but she knew resistance, and in the same hissing way, she blasted back at the whisper-thing every ounce of determination she had, dredged it from her very bones to fling at her tormentor.

I will NOT.

“Ginny! Ginny, we just want to help!”

A sobbing cry echoed across the cavernous chamber and the red wolf whimpered, longing to run to her pack for the comfort she knew they promised. GET OUT! She screamed, howled, the only way she knew how to communicate was to throw every bit of feeling at whoever was nearest. GET OUT, RUN. RUN.

There was an almost tangible frisson of shock from the night-heart-kin and her lilac-ash companion, and the red wolf took a moment to breathe as she heard them back away. Somehow they had understood. Somehow they knew.

The whisper-hate-thing chuckled darkly and it felt as if it settled itself deeper into her nervous thing. So he’s a Parselmouth. Well, that changes things – and evens the playing field, and I don’t want that. No, little monster, you are going to kill him and you are going to kill him now.

The red wolf snarled and arched her back, turning away from her pack and padding on shrieking limbs into the far corner of the chamber. WILL NOT, she growled, but it was no use. The pain in her nerves extended through every inch of her body, stealing her breath and sending her tumbling to the floor as her legs collapsed beneath her. The whisper-thing was a weight now, crushing the life from her even as she wheezed for air and whimpered in pain.

Maybe you won’t. But I don’t need you here to use you, the whisper-thing growled softly. There was a rush of pain and dizziness as if he had stepped upon her throat, and then the red wolf’s senses winked out and she tumbled into colourless unconsciousness, the last thought one of her pack – the hope that they would know the difference and kill her body now that she had been ousted from it. She embraced the fall, and hoped in misery that she did not wake. She could not take any more death.

____________________________________________________________________

When the red wolf awoke, it was to darkness and for the first time in her life, quiet. Her ears pricked up, she wrinkled her nose at the sensation of their misshapenness, but there was nothing – nothing, no voice in her head, no fire in her veins – nothing. Were she not so bruised, the red wolf would have leapt to her paws and danced around for joy – somehow, she was free, something she had never imagined to be possible.

“Hey, Ginny, you ok there?” a voice inquired. The red wolf’s heart leapt into her throat – she knew that voice, she knew these scents – somehow she was alive, and her pack had defeated the whisper-thing of hate without destroying her.

The red wolf didn’t know a Ginny, but she knew her pack and she raised her head, blinking open eyes to a fragmented field of blurred patches and too-bright crystal shards – and in those shards was the tangled black mane, the gentle long-paws of her night-heart-kin, the round worried face of the moon-smoke-friend. Aroo?

The moon-smoke-fur-friend chuckled softly and reached out a spindle-paw to the red wolf for her inspection. The red wolf flinched, curled a lip and pushed down a growl – this was pack, she didn’t bite pack. But the moon-night-friend got the message enough and withdrew their hand. “Alright, no touching. But we’ve got to get out of here. Rhiannon, any ideas? I mean, you’re the expert.”

The red wolf blinked and shrank, confused by the back and forth between the two-leggers even if they were pack – they weren’t talking like pack did, and she hid her too-short muzzle under her too-long paws with a little whine. Immediately, the two-leggeds stopped talking and their collective attention returned to the wolf, which comforted her. She needed them to pay attention – they couldn’t forget she was there, she might hurt them. She still could not entirely believe that the whisper was gone, that she was really free – perhaps it was hiding somewhere, latched onto some recess of her soul.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to confuse you,” the night-heart-kin murmured. The red wolf whined again, but she understood at least the tone and that was comforting enough. “We’ve g-g-g-g-got, t’ get you out’ve here, and it’ll be scary but just, focus on me, ‘kay?”

The red wolf shook her head, she did not understand whatever the night-heart-kin was trying to get across and once again she shrank back in concern. The night-heart-kin sighed, and what little of her the red wolf could see through her fragmented vision and increasing headache, showed her stretching and wrinkling her face in weird ways.

Have to get out. Will be scary, but focus on me and stay calm. Safe with me.

The red wolf cocked her head and scrabbled backwards, suddenly panicked as the night-heart-kin’s hissing words drilled into her head. She understood, mostly – but this sounded like the whisper-hate-thing and that frightened her.

“Oh God – I bet he only spoke to her in Parseltongue, she’s got no other experience of it,” the moon-night-friend exclaimed softly, their voice pitched low and horrified.

The night-home-kin shook her head and sighed wearily. Sorry. Didn’t think. Just stay calm, stay calm, and we’ll get you to help. Whatever happens, calm, for me – just calm, she told the red wolf firmly. The red wolf inched closer, stubby tail curled firmly between her legs, the tip twitching against her hollow belly – she was frightened, but hopeful.

“Okay, Fawkes – do your thing,” the night-moon-heart murmured, and the red wolf cocked her head curiously – they addressed someone she couldn’t see. There was an odd rustling sound, and something long, lightweight and delicate dropped over her muzzle for just a moment before she startled back in shock. “Okay, don’t, try that again, d’you have to touch her, or can we? Oh, what am I thinking, you’re a bird, let’s just try it,”

This time, instead of a sudden new thing, the red wolf watched as a fragmented image of the night-home-kin’s spindle-paw approached her slowly. Have to touch you. Only short. Stay calm, she reassured the wolf, and though the red wolf stiffened and trembled, she managed to be still as the night-kin ran their hand gently under her muzzle – ooooooh, nice nice nice, she thought and surprised herself with an inadvertent wiggle at the sensation, before the night-kin’s hand came to rest firmly in the hollow of her neck against her shoulder blade. Slowly, tentatively, the red wolf relaxed into the touch and opened her eyes again, squinting to make sense of the messy fractals as they were disturbed by a flurry of motion, accompanied by the whispering, rustling hushushushushush of great long-feathered wings beating – wings, that was a sound she knew, she had hunted many birds through the hills. And then a flood of grey-purple spread across her broken vision and she had to screw her eyes shut again, as a great glimmering something swallowed them up and it was all the red wolf could do to obey her night-heart’s order – calm, she had to be calm.

Then, with a great sickening whoosh, they were deposited... somewhere else. The red wolf couldn’t so much as try to understand it, she could only react, and though the night-heart’s order rang through her head, she still leapt to her paws in fear – where, where, where, this place was all walls and bright and sharp-smelling and she began to turn anxiously in a circle, in her fragmented vision it was one great kaleidoscope of fright.
“Rhiannon? Rhiannon, oh Merlin, is that – is that Miss Weasley?”

Another voice, this one louder and fuller, rang across the room and echoed painfully off the harsh surfaces.

Calm. Safe here, the night-heart reminded the red wolf sternly, and she subsided grudgingly, then settled painfully back on the ground in an ungainly resting arc, her eyes screwed firmly shut against the pain of the room. She would be calm, and she would be safe, and she knew so because the night-heart was to be trusted.

There was some confusing exchange of words between the two-leggers, and a lot of rustling as others entered the room and the full-voice-sharp-smell one bustled about the room picking up things that clinked against eachother curiously. The red wolf flattened herself against the cold floor, but she was determined – she would be calm for the night-heart, she would be calm.

They’ll give you medicine now. In your mouth. It tastes bad, but drink it, safe, and no biting. NO biting, the night-heart warned. The red wolf whined and scrabbled backwards until her rear end hit a wall and she simply cowered there. Figures she couldn’t see approached her, she could smell and hear them on all sides and she was trapped – but the night-heart had told her calm, she had to be calm – she was safe, the night-heart had said she was safe and that one would never lie. Still, she couldn’t keep back the growl that rose in her throat and turned into a gurgle as someone pried open her muzzle with a firm grasp, then tipped something liquid in and quickly clamped it closed again. The red wolf didn’t know what her night-heart had been talking about, this wasn’t so bad – sweetish, thick and gentle on her mouth, calming the burning in her throat as it trickled down. And for a moment, she was calm again – until the medicine began to take effect and she realised what it was. Slowly, inexorably, the effects of the syrup dragged the red wolf into unconsciousness yet again. Safe. She had to be safe. There had to be a good reason the night-heart would let them put her to sleep. But even as she repeated that, a little seed of doubt crept in and that doubt grew into fear even as she was dragged under – why, why did they need her gone. Would she ever wake?