The Marauders: Year Seven Part One

A Terrific Fight

It was a particularly bad moon, and the Marauders had a long night of it. They were all exhausted come morning, and at sunrise they collapsed on the floor around Remus's restored form. "Bloody hell," James said thickly, sliding his glasses into his jumper pocket. "What a night." 

"Indeed," Sirius muttered. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch, rolling his little knife blade across his knuckles as he stared at his boots.

"Oh be careful doing that," Peter begged, watching the silver blade as Sirius played about with it. "Watch that you don't cut off a finger."

"I won't cut off a finger," Sirius answered, rolling his eyes. "Maybe you ought to check your little chart and see if I will."

"Well just be careful, will you?" Peter pleaded, his face gone red.

"Leave him alone, Padfoot..." James said sleepily, without even opening his eyes. "Thank Merlin Greyback didn't come after all. Don't reckon we could've done at holding him off. Not with trying to keep Remus in check as well."

"No, I doubt we could," Sirius said quietly, folding his knife and putting it away, laying down next to Remus. He traced Remus's chin with his finger tip, remembering the horrid sight of it stretching and cracking to form the werewolf's ferocious jaw.

Peter stared up at the ceiling, questioning his talents and the power of his Horary chart in confusion. He was glad, too, of course that the fight they'd planned for had never come, but he knew, too, that now the others would never listen when he told them of his divination findings. Maybe the other times had been simply luck and nothing more, he thought. Perhaps it really was only guesswork.

He lay awake long after the others were asleep, staring at the dusty beams and feeling utterly useless.

It had been a terrific fight.

Garm Tyr watched Fenrir approach the castle, stalked him quietly, his boots not making a single sound as they moved through the brush. Greyback had no suspicion that Garm Tyr was there at all until the transformation began and Garm launched himself forward, intent on trying to incarcerate the larger man before his own transformation took place... but the moonlight landed on him too quickly and he lost his opportunity so that all he could do was fight to protect the castle. And fight he did. There was a clashing of jaws, flashing teeth as the great mouths snapped and growled and claws several inches thick tore and ripped at one another - grey and black wolves, entangled. 

The grey wolf pinned the black suddenly, striking him to the ground and standing upon his chest, his fangs bared, eyes gleaming with pride and anticipation as he growled, his hot breath burning the nose of the black wolf, who struggled desperately to get away. The grey wolf was twice his size, and far less scraggly. The grey wolf thrived on being a wolf, on the violence of it, while the black wolf was new to his condition, still unused to the feeling of his body in this form. The black wolf was strong, but in no means could he  shake off the grey wolf's weight as he stood hard on the black wolf's rib cage. Teeth bared - the grey wolf snapped, biting into the black wolf's neck and shoulder, ripping, his teeth deep in the muscle and shaking his head, ripping the flesh, the black wolf crying out loudly...

And suddenly the grey wolf was struck with a blow from behind, by something large, hard and solid. His head was knocked free of the black wolf's shoulder suddenly, with force, and he fell to one side with a shriek of surprise and pain before scrambling to his feet and turning tail, rushing off through the trees. There was a great crashing as whatever it was that had laid the blow to the wolf followed after him, branches snapping and breaking...