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The Wolf at Moonrise

Summary:

The war does not wait. It presses against stone and skin alike, dragging every name into its tally. Yet in frost-bound cottages and shadowed safehouses, the Order of the Phoenix endures — scarred, defiant, bound by more than strategy.

Harry shoulders prophecy with weary ferocity, haunted by his father in every reckless choice. Hermione heals with stained hands and sleepless eyes, until healer and soldier blur. Ginny burns bright and dangerous, whiskey-laughter daring Sirius Black — rake, prisoner, Marauder reborn — to match her fire.

Remus, caught between man and wolf, finds solace in Luna, whose iridescent gaze does not flinch from either. Together they braid silk, scars, and hunger into talisman and tenderness. Ron, strategist to the last, plays his final game as he once did in the first — until the board tips into blood.

This is the war’s last winter: maps curling under grief, nights where desire and despair entwine, and lovers who seize each other as if they might hold back dawn. When the final battle rises — frost, moon, and fire converging — the question is not who will live, but what fragments of love and memory will endure in the ashes.

Notes:

Dear Reader,

Welcome, brave soul, to the war’s last winter.

Here, the frost bites gently but persistently, curling maps and hearts alike. The Order of the Phoenix endures—not just in strategy and spellwork, but in laughter that defies silence, in hands that heal even when trembling, and in love that burns brighter than prophecy.

You’ll find Harry, fierce and frayed, chasing ghosts and destiny with equal desperation. Hermione, ever the quiet storm, stitches broken bodies and broken hope with ink-stained fingers. Ginny dances with danger, daring Sirius to keep pace with her firelight grin. And somewhere between moonrise and madness, Luna teaches Remus how to braid silk and sorrow into something sacred.

This is not a tale of who survives. It’s a tale of what survives—of memory, of magic, of the way two people might cling to each other in the dark and believe, just for a moment, that it’s enough to hold back dawn.

So come in. Wrap yourself in a blanket of starlight and story. Let the snow fall. Let the fire crackle. Let your heart ache and soar and shimmer.

I promise: there’s beauty in the ashes.

With wonder and warmth,

Lorelai

P.S. For courage: Steep one page in tea, whisper your name to the steam, and read by candlelight.

Chapter 1: Chapter One – Moonrise

Chapter Text

Chapter One – Moonrise

The night belonged to the moon.

It rose swollen and argent above the forest, spilling silver across the glade in a tide of light. The wards shimmered faintly at the perimeter, quiet traces of ancient craft: runes etched long ago into the bark of oaks, ivy that glowed in threads of green flame where it climbed the trunks, moss beneath the canopy thrumming with a low, enchanted hum. Old magic lay everywhere, gentle yet absolute, cradling the clearing in silence.

The wolf prowled within its circle.

He was no hulking brute but a lithe shadow, all long limbs and stark lines. His flanks were narrow, ribs etched against the silver glow, fur thinned in places where battles had torn through, though what remained caught the moonlight in a lavender sheen, soft as mist.

Amber eyes burned from his angular face, restless and wary, unblinking in the hush. Violence seemed carved into his body, yet when he moved it was with dreadful elegance, as though ruin itself had been reshaped into grace.

At the edge of the glade, another light unfolded.

Moonlight bent into form. Pale hair dissolved into fur, and a hare crouched in the grass, white as frost. Her coat glimmered faintly, her wide eyes luminous as twin moons. From her brow rose antlers, velvet-sheathed and impossible, gleaming like branches rimmed with silver.

The wolf stilled, growl fractured into silence.

The hare stepped forward. Dew scattered from her fur like falling stars. She did not falter, unbowed beneath his shadow. When she reached his chest, her luminous gaze met the amber blaze.

For a heartbeat he loomed above her, ribs heaving, jaws parted in hunger. A sound then tore from his chest, cracked and raw, neither rage nor desire but something deeper, almost breaking. Slowly the wolf folded down, curling himself around her slight form, tail sweeping close to seal her within his body’s hollow.

The hare pressed against his chest. Her nose touched the thin fur above his heart, antlers tangling lightly. What she found was not harshness but unexpected softness — velvet warmth carrying the scent of earth, faint smoke, and the ghost of chocolate lingering.

The Animagus self accepted this without question. Yet the woman within understood: this tenderness was his humanity, buried yet alive, woven into lavender fur and fragile ribs, present in the steadying of his breath as he sank into sleep.

The forest inclined itself.

Moondew lilies unfurled at the edge of the clearing, petals glowing with pale blue light. Flutterby bushes sighed, blossoms bleeding silver to indigo with each pulse of the wards. Even the devil’s snare, restless in its lattice beyond, slackened its coils.

At the treeline, a unicorn lingered.

Its coat shone white as starlight, its mane rippling silver, horn gleaming with quiet radiance. The creature did not turn away. Instead, its gaze fixed on the hare crowned with antlers. Slowly, solemnly, it bowed its head.

The wolf did not stir. He did not devour her. He guarded her.

Moonlight crowned them both as silence sealed the night.