The Marauders: Year Seven Part Two

Runaway With Me

Elva Greenwood woke with a start.

She was in her arctic fox form, her pure white fur caught the light of the waxing gibbous moonlight, reflecting it like a beacon. Her large, cupped ears moved forward, cautious, and her nose twitched, smelling...

The castle was silent, aside from the sound of her padding feet. She move from shadow to shadow, skittering along the walls, her tail low, her body tense. She did not know what it was that had her hackles up, could not name what sense she felt it with, but she knew there was something inherently wrong.

Down the stairs, through Fallengunder, stepping carefully over the wreckage that still remained from the battle that had occurred there. Had it truly only been a just a few months since the Death Eaters had infiltrated the walls and Ned Veigler had been killed? Her heart ached cruelly at the memory of the man whose love she'd given up too rashly and then had been taken from her too soon.

The kitchen was still warm from dinner, the hearth put out but the storms holding the heat of the fire that had burned there. A lingering smell of the meal hung in the air, and Elva almost wished she had come down to eat with the others.

Almost.

Since Ned had died, Elva had only transformed into her human form a rare number of times - once to talk to Albus Dumbledore about what had happened, and again once or twice for Newt Scamander, whose nervous tics were weirdly soothing to her. Ned had held the magizoologist in highest regard, she knew that, and for that reason alone she felt compelled to respect him and accept his kindnesses. But she didn't deserve them, of that she was sure.

The Kneazle was crouched on a desk in the library, staring with its wide orange-yellow eyes at the windows that looked out over the cliffs. Cold air whistled through still damaged windows and ruffled the pages of books strewn across the floor. The Kneazle's tail swung, pendulum like, as its eyes narrowed to slits, the hair on the back of its neck standing up.

There is something out there. Elva felt the words more than heard them, in a way she could never explain to anyone who could not telecommunicate themselves. It made no sense, like a psychic language, like twins whose thoughts align so perfectly they can finish one another's sentences. It's coming closer.

Elva moved to the window and stretched onto her hind legs to peer out, too. How could anything ascend those perilous cliffs? she wondered.

Disapparation, came the Kneazle's answer.

Elva shivered and looked to the sky.

A couple miles away, the village lay still, dark, and quiet. A single watchman walked up the main road through town, glancing across darkened windows and doors, making sure that everything was safe. He carried a pistol, and his eyes scanned the line of trees, searching for any sign of wolves in the forest.

And they were fierce and unmerciful, swift as night and stone cold as death itself. That's what his gran had always said, describing the wolves that had come down from Fallengunder over the years, the ones that took away children, men and women, whose bodies were never found. The wolves came in stealth packs, relentless and cruel.

The guard held his pistol all the tighter.

He reached the end of the road, and lowered himself onto a thick wood bench, letting out a deep sign. It was a tad after midnight, he realized, and it was time that he could eat his dinner. The sound of his fork scratching the container he had packed his meal in was the only sound. The night was quiet as a tomb.

Too quiet.

The night guard was packing up his dish when he heard a crack. He looked up quickly - but the main road was still as empty as it had ever been. He turned to look toward the woods, raising his pistol as he stood up, heart racing...