Harry Potter : Chapter 59: On The Prowl I

"Wingardium Leviosa." I found some solace in using the basic charm as it was meant to be used, for the first time in what felt like decades, that single piece of magic was merely meant to hold up something of limited dimensions for a limited amount of time.

Under the light of the fading sunset, I observed with trepidation the flat disk of Iron etched with Norse runes: it had taken me a couple of weeks of research to properly prepare.

And I could only be thankful that the Norse had already been using a seal composed by this many runes for a purpose that so closely matched my own, otherwise I woud have needed to start from scrap.

For the first time since I first talked about Ancient Runes with Tom, I appreciated why they were still so used.

In theory, enchantments were simply effects added more or less permanently to any given object thanks to a wizard imposing its will on it. That was it. The use of symbols was meant to be only in the head of the caster, as they acted as bridges between meaning and reality, but they were unnecessary if one was capable enough. And I was capable enough.

At least, I was capable enough when it came to leveraging the understanding of a single meaning: I could turn myself into something unimportant by lifting my shadow and donning it as a cloak.

Technically that was a temporary enchantment on an object, which fell under the Charm category that Hogwarts and the Magical World at large was so fixated on.

But for what I had planned, I had to make sure that every element was present at the same time. For what I needed, I had to be certain that several meanings that I used to tweak reality would mesh well with each other, and not fade while my mind stopped focusing completely on them.

Maybe, if I had been still and meditating, I might have been able to keep up the multiple meanings that powered the magic I was attempting to weave but that wasn't the case.

The disc of flat iron hovered silently in front of me, and I went over each symbol before beginning this new experiment. Mere potions and ritualism applied to the hunt appeared to not be enough to 'heal' the werewolves.

I had tried unsuccessfully for months: this would be something new, something that hopefully could bind the success of the hunt with the condition necessary to satisfy the mad craving of the werewolf.

As I had figured out, pushing against the curse simply didn't work: what was needed was a catharsis of sort, something that would satisfy the beast, enough to allow the humanity to resurface.

"Feoh to begin the seal," my wand tapped the symbol ᚠ, which lit with a perfect white. "Kenaz to find the prey," and the symbol ᚳ followed the fate of the previous one, "Eihwaz that is the hunting itself, the seeking of success."

I breathed slowly as the ᚪ I had carved in the bone lit up, and then went on, "Raido for the travel that we'll have to complete." the symbol ᚱ lit, and I felt the disk of bone thrum with the promise of the seal I was building, and then I completed the seal by tapping ᚣ: "Uruz for the strength I'll need and prove to have."

I had downed my potions, I had modified those for Marie and Paul, and cast a significant Engorgio over the wild boar that snorted irritably in his wooden cage: a full regime of brews had gone into making him more dangerous.

Faster, more resilient, and if I managed it correctly, even smarter. While I kept an eye on the others, I secured the iron seal on my shirt with a simple sticking charm. I didn't feel anything more than the thrumming eagerness that the potions had already imbued me with: I could only hope that this hunt would be the last.

The tusks of the horse-sized boar scratched deep gouges in the wood of its cage, and the bars groaned in protest when the creature leaned on them with its bulk, but its prison held. Paul, his mind a chaotic mess of resentment and fear, drank his vial.

Marie, who on the other hand seemed to face each transformation with the acceptance of the martyr, did the same.

I cloaked myself in shadows, crouched behind a tree, my body looking like a misshapen stretch of unimportant darkness among the roots and the underbrush, and the full moon shone over the horizon: the slowly dying light of the June sunset retreating in front of She Who Called The Hunt.

In response to the moonlight, the muggles I had 'saved' years before shifted: in a rictus of agony, their bones broke, their ligaments tore, their muscles were shredded as they assumed a new, corded might: greyish fur sprouted from skin that assumed the consistency of hide, and the eyes of Paul and Marie mirrored the loos of sanity that heralded the coming of the Cursed Wolf.

The cage of the magically enhanced boar gave with a snapping of wood, and an instant later we were rocketing through the little underbrush that characterized the Forest of Dean.

I passed by trees while I contorted with a flexibility that only my brews could gift me, my feet made no sound as I moved over the occasional twig, and the smell of my sweat and breath didn't leave my skin, kept in place by the mantle of shadows that surrounded me for the duration of the hunt.

Ahead of the two werewolves, the giant boar tore uncaringly across the forest, trees splintering against his unforgiving tusks and the few rocks cracking under the might of its legs: powerful muscles moving in waves under the hirsute hair that covered the creature.

With the occasional howl and snarl, Paul and Marie, or the two cursed, mindless beasts that had taken their place, streaked under the stretches of moonlight that pierced the open canopy above us, their golden eyes shining in the dark with the bloodlust singing in them: the Hunt was the solution to my impasse when it came to curing Lycanthropy, I was sure of it.

So I kept up the rear, observing what little I could of the werewolves ahead of me, using my ears more than my eyes to follow the boar that led the strange charge through the Forest of Dean, and I made a mental note of dropping some potions to help the trees heal once the moon returned beneath the horizon.

Eventually, I reached Paul and Marie, who hadn't yet killed the boar: instead, the creature had decided that turning on itself and trying to gore one of its hinters was the best idea ever.

With its back to an oak large enough to prevent any of the two werewolves from circling it, the prey shook its massive head threateningly, with its tusks digging once more against the ground.

I quickly and silently climbed a tree and observed the results of my meddling, the iron disk etched with runes feeling strangely heavy against my chest: even through my shirt, it felt cold. Not now.

I wrenched my focus back on the werewolves that had moved while I was busy climbing: Paul, that I recognized as its bulk was bigger than Marie's, had a shallow but long scratch that went from the shoulder to the hip.

Apparently, he had tried to duck under the charge of the boar, and my eyes spotted the much deeper gnash on the prey's foreleg, signifying some measure of success.

The boar shook its head and its tusks dug deep grooves in the ground, dirt, and grass flying about in a small cloud as the creature snorted angrily, only to charge once more.

Marie nimbly avoided it, remaining close enough to force the prey to keep its focus on her, just in time for Paul to jump over the back of the horse-sized herbivore, its razor-sharp teeth piercing the thick hide as if it wasn't even there, its claw tearing into the musles and sinew below.

From then on, it was a matter of time: Marie kept darting in only to retreat from the dangerous tusks of the boar, which were used to great effect to guard its throat, while Paul bit and snarled and clawed and howled.

The panicked prey darted forth once more, uprooting a couple of trees in the vain hope of dislodging the werewolf on its back, while the smaller of the two cursed beings ripped a chunk of flesh from its rear.

The boar buckled, and soon the copious blood loss slowed its reactions, soon, it died.

The potion enhancing me stopped working with the death of the creature, and I held my breath as Marie and Paul feasted on the horse-sized boar: once they consumed their victory, so to speak, the curse should recede either leaving both in human form, or returning their human minds to the pilot seat.

For all of the immense dimensions of the boar, it didn't take the two werewolves more than an hour to leave behind only bones that had been gnawed upon: it was a gruesome sight, and not something that I cared to observe any more than necessary.

I remained concealed while they finished, and I waited with bared teeth to observe a change, even minuscule, in the behavior of Paul and Marie.

Pacified somewhat, the werewolves eventually left the clearing created by the fierce battle among the creatures, and once they slinked away in the night in different directions, I held back the instinct of punching the nearest branch out of frustration.

They no longer howled and snarled madly, but that was hardly an acceptable proof that I had managed what I had set myself out to do.

Maybe I can use the bones of the boar for something. I thought to myself as I started to quietly descend from my hiding spot: a hunting horn carved from one of the tusks of prey killed by a werewolf could be useful, couldn't it?

Enchanting wasn't my fortè, but I might figure out a small ritual or unique brew to turn the tusk into something more: as Dumbledore would one day say, music is its own form of magic. The how was representative of the werewolves' hunting, and maybe I'd find a way.

In any case, I wasn't one to waste potential resources, even if I was done with exploiting the dying.

I cast aside the guilt-bearing memory of the death of my 'father' and made my way through the newly made clearing. I raised my wand, ready to start pulling apart the potentially useful tusks from the bloodied and gnawed skull of the boar, when I heard something.

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