Under the Cursed Moon

Harry Potter had never been afraid of being a werewolf—not really. The moment he realized he wasn’t a typical werewolf but something far more powerful and controlled, any lingering fear faded. What truly gnawed at him was the stigma, the prejudice that came with the label. But Harry, unlike many who had suffered under such a curse, was not limited by the same societal chains.

The law prevented werewolves from getting decent jobs in the wizarding world. The moment someone was classified as a werewolf, their career prospects vanished. They were restricted, stigmatized, and often left with nothing. For many, it was a life sentence of poverty and isolation.

But Harry? He didn’t need a job.

He was already rich by the time he inherited Sirius Black’s fortune, and with his newly acquired wealth from both the House of Black and the Potter family combined, Harry had access to unimaginable resources. His vaults in Gringotts overflowed with ancient gold, rare jewels, and priceless artifacts. He was a millionaire in both the wizarding and Muggle worlds.

Sirius had left Harry not only money but titles and responsibilities. Harry was now Lord Black, the head of one of the oldest and most prestigious families in wizarding history. But with his condition, there were things he couldn’t do—like attend the Wizengamot, the wizarding council where he should have taken his seat among the most influential. The prejudice against werewolves ran deep, and even as Lord Black, Harry was effectively exiled from those halls.

Still, it wasn’t something he lost sleep over. He didn’t need their approval. The goblins at Gringotts, who managed his fortune, couldn’t care less if he was a werewolf or anything else. They respected wealth and power above all, and Harry had both in abundance.

Harry spent most of his time in the Muggle world now, far from the eyes of the magical society that had turned its back on him. The Muggle world was vast, complicated, and beautifully mundane in its own way. Growing up with the Dursleys had left him isolated from both the magical and Muggle worlds. Now, he had the freedom to explore the world he never had the chance to experience.

He wandered the bustling streets of cities like London, New York, and Paris, blending in with the sea of people who had no idea who he was. The anonymity was liberating. No whispers followed him here. No one pointed at him or whispered about the scar on his forehead or the rumors of his lycanthropy. Here, he wasn’t the Boy Who Lived or a supposed monster—he was just another face in the crowd.

For the first time in his life, Harry felt like he could breathe.

He explored museums, walked through ancient ruins, learned about history and culture that had nothing to do with magic. He immersed himself in the richness of the Muggle world, where things like magic, blood status, or even werewolf curses held no sway.

While Harry roamed the Muggle world, Hermione remained deeply entrenched in the wizarding one, working at the Ministry of Magic. After all they had been through together, she had found her place as a key figure in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. It was the perfect job for her, as it combined her passion for justice and her love for creatures often misunderstood and mistreated.

She had taken on the role of a magical creature loyalist, a title that made Harry smile whenever he thought about it. Her department worked tirelessly to secure rights for beings like house-elves, werewolves, goblins, and centaurs—those at the bottom rung of magical society, treated like second-class citizens or worse.

Hermione thrived in her role. She tackled problems with the same fierce determination she had always shown, fighting for reforms that would give those creatures better lives. It wasn’t easy. The wizarding world was slow to change, and the old prejudices ran deep. But Hermione was nothing if not persistent. She had already made some headway, establishing better treatment for house-elves and starting important discussions about werewolf rights.

Harry admired her for it. She was doing something he knew he couldn’t. She was standing up in a system that had already rejected him, working within the very society that shunned him to make it better. Hermione always had that hope for a better future, a belief that the world could change, even if it took time.

And she loved it. She loved her work, the challenges it brought, and the knowledge that she was making a difference. It didn’t matter to her that the Ministry was full of people who had looked down on them during the war. She was there for the creatures who had no voice, fighting on their behalf.

When Hermione would come home from work, tired but energized by her day’s victories and defeats, Harry would listen to her talk about the Ministry. He would hear about the battles she fought in meeting rooms, how she had persuaded this department head or argued with that council member. She shared with him stories of small victories—a new law to protect centaurs from being displaced from their territories, a breakthrough in securing funding for werewolf support programs.

"It’s slow," she said one night, slumping onto the couch next to Harry, "but we’re getting there. Bit by bit, things are changing. I think we’re close to getting some real reforms passed for werewolves. The fact that there’s actual dialogue happening about it is progress in itself."

Harry smiled at her, his heart swelling with pride. "You’re amazing, you know that?"

Hermione gave a tired laugh. "Not as amazing as you. You’re the one exploring a whole new world out there."

"Yeah, but you’re changing one," Harry said softly, reaching out to take her hand. "That’s something I could never do."

"Don’t sell yourself short," she said, squeezing his hand. "You’ve always been good at changing the world."

Despite their different paths, Harry and Hermione remained each other’s constant. They had faced death together, fought against insurmountable odds, and now, even though their worlds were vastly different, they shared a bond that was unbreakable.

Harry’s forays into the Muggle world gave him a sense of peace, a reprieve from the pressures and expectations of the magical one. But no matter where he went or what he did, he always returned to Hermione. And for Hermione, despite her work and the passion she had for her cause, it was Harry who grounded her, who reminded her of why she was fighting.

Together, they navigated a life that straddled two worlds—the magical and the Muggle. Harry had found solace in the world he had once been forced to live in, and Hermione had found purpose in fighting for those who had no voice.

But through it all, they had each other. And that, Harry knew, was more important than any title, any fortune, or any acceptance from the world outside.

Harry Potter knew the truth of the wizarding world all too well. Having survived the first and second wizarding wars, he had seen firsthand how easily the rich and powerful escaped justice. They bribed the Ministry, leveraged their pure-blood status, and weaved their way out of the consequences of their atrocities, leaving the rest of the world to clean up the mess.

After Voldemort’s fall, Harry had no illusions about what awaited. The Death Eaters and their sympathizers were scattered, their influence seemingly diminished. But the pure-blood elite had a way of slithering back into power, even when the odds were against them. The same had happened after Voldemort's first defeat; many had claimed they were under the Imperius Curse, and with the right connections and the right amount of gold, they had walked free.

As the world celebrated the end of Voldemort, Harry and Hermione stayed in the shadows, watching the old families return to their ways of manipulating the system. The Ministry was too eager to move on from the war, too eager to patch over the scars without addressing the rot within. The old money, the untouchable pure-bloods, were already working their way back into the halls of power.

But Harry had made a decision. This time, there would be no escape for those who had blood on their hands. Those who had enslaved, tortured, and killed under the banner of Voldemort wouldn't walk away unscathed. The courts could be bribed, the laws bent, but Harry had a different kind of justice in mind. A justice no amount of galleons could buy.

And he knew how to make it happen.

The first time Harry struck, it was in secret. A well-known Death Eater, one who had claimed to have been under the Imperius Curse for years, was found dead in his mansion. His family discovered him lying in bed, as if he had died peacefully in his sleep. No magic had been used. No signs of a struggle. The magical community was baffled.

There were no traces of Harry’s involvement, not even the slightest hint of his signature. Because he hadn’t used magic. With the strength, speed, and senses of his Lycan form, he could take down any wizard without them even knowing what hit them. His claws and fangs were his tools of justice, and without the use of a wand, there was no magical trail to follow.

From the outside, it looked like a series of natural deaths. One by one, the old families who had escaped justice fell. Each death was quiet, clean, and untraceable. The wizarding world whispered about it in dark corners, but no one knew what was truly happening. The Ministry chalked it up to old age, illness, or other natural causes.

But Harry and Hermione knew the truth.

"How long do you think we can keep this up?" Hermione asked one evening, her voice barely a whisper as they sat together in the dimly lit kitchen of their secluded home."

As long as it takes," Harry said, his eyes dark and determined.

Hermione sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her tea mug. "We’re walking a fine line, Harry. I’m with you, but... this is dangerous. If anyone finds out—""No one will find out,"

Harry cut her off gently. "They’re too arrogant to believe that someone like me could take them down without using magic. They’ve always underestimated me, Hermione."

Hermione’s brow furrowed. "I just don’t want you to lose yourself in this."

"I’m not," he assured her. "I’m doing what needs to be done. These people would kill again if they had the chance. They can’t be allowed to slip through the cracks like last time."

Hermione nodded, understanding his resolve. She didn’t like the idea of Harry carrying the burden of silent executioner, but she couldn’t deny the truth. The wizarding world had shown time and time again that it would protect its elites, no matter the cost to others.

"I trust you," she said softly, reaching out to take his hand. "But promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you’ll stop when it’s over."

Harry squeezed her hand gently. "I will. When the world is safe... when I know they can’t hurt anyone else, I’ll stop."

Harry's strikes were calculated and precise. He didn’t relish the killing—he took no joy in it—but he knew it was necessary. Each time he brought down another Death Eater or corrupt official, he felt a weight lift off his shoulders, knowing that innocent lives would be spared in the future. But it was always followed by a heavier weight—the burden of taking another life.

Hermione was his anchor through it all. She didn't participate in the killings, but she knew everything. She stood by him, quietly supporting him even when it weighed on her conscience. She reminded him that they were fighting for a better future, one where the horrors of Voldemort's reign could never be repeated.

Still, there were those who escaped his reach. Some of the pure-blood elites were quick to adapt, going into hiding, surrounding themselves with protective spells, and using every resource they had to ensure their safety. Rumors spread that Harry Potter was vulnerable, that he had been weakened by the werewolf curse. Some believed he was a hunted man, no longer the Boy Who Lived but a monster to be put down.

And so they came after him.

Pure-blood bounty hunters, mercenaries, and those loyal to the old ways thought they could track him down, take him by surprise, and collect their revenge. Killing a werewolf wasn’t beyond their capabilities, or so they thought.

But those who came hunting Harry never left. They disappeared, vanished into thin air. No one knew what happened to them, and no one would ever find out. Harry dealt with them just as swiftly and silently as he had dealt with the Death Eaters. Their bodies were never found, their fates left a mystery. To the world, it was as if they had simply ceased to exist.

With each passing month, the wizarding world grew quieter. The whispers of rebellion and revenge faded into the background. The old guard had been shattered, and the new generation, led by people like Hermione, worked to build a better, fairer society. The Ministry slowly but surely changed, thanks in no small part to her efforts.

But Harry knew the truth of what had brought them peace. It wasn’t just reforms and new laws—it was the removal of the worst elements from their society. The ones who had taken innocent lives, who had used power and wealth to avoid justice. They were gone now, buried in the shadows, their names forgotten.

Harry had ensured that this time, there would be no return for the Death Eaters. No escape, no forgiveness. Peace had come, but it had been bought with blood.

And only he and Hermione knew just how much had been sacrificed to achieve it.