𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 → 𝐍𝐞𝐰𝐭 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝙗𝙚𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚.

      𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

"Brothers and sisters — we are under attack!"

The magical men with hatred in their blood and greed in their hearts.

Mavka was young, and she awoke to her mother's screams as they attacked. But it was not only her mother's screams, it was her brothers' and sisters' screams too. The entirety of her home was up in flames.

Mavka ran through the fires, yelping as she was burned and evading magical men as they chased after her.

There were not many beings in her small tribe of Therian people. The Therian people—AKA people who held the power of therianthrope—were the most powerful shapeshifting beings in the world.

More powerful than the Metamorphmagus or Animagi of the wizarding world. And more powerful than a boggart or even a werewolf.

The people descended with the capability of therianthrope could transform themselves into any being—living or not—with just a thought.

This, of course, came with the price of them not having any other magic like Metamorphmagi and Animagi wizards did. Then again, a Therian being was not limited to only changing into people as a Metamorphmagi is or only changing to the spirit animal of the self as Animagi were.

Unlike a boggart—the Therian did not only shapeshift into another's worst fear. And the werewolf species were prisoners of an inner beast under a full moon, the Therian had no such qualms.

They were fully in control of themselves with the power to shift under pure will alone. There were no limits to their shifting abilities.

Unfortunately, the blood of the Therian people contained very rare magical properties that if consumed by a witch or wizard granted the gift of Metamorphmagi.

For a human of magical blood to be a Metamorphmagi—they need to be born with the talent. A very unique gift that is unable to be learned by even the most skilled sorcerer without the rare genes for it.

Unless, of course, one consumed enough blood of a Therian, then such a skill could be achieved. Not only is it achieved, but the bloodline itself will be transfigured to carry the rare coding for Metamorphmagi genes from there on out. AKA—any children of the witch or wizard who consumed such blood might also be born with the ability of a Metamorphmagus.

Obviously, such methods were deemed unethical and morally incorrect seeing as wizards need all the blood from the Therian person to achieve such a thing, thus killing them slowly and painfully. Despite the wizarding world outlawing the killing of the people of therianthrope, it did not stop some who truly wanted the ability of a Metamorphmagus.

And seeing as Therian people were already far and few between—the entire species is nearly on the brink of extinction with how few there are left.

Sadly, that does not stop magical poachers from hunting them for a hefty price.

Mavka only had the unfortunate fate of such a thing happening to her small tribe. And no one was coming to help them.

Not when she was eventually caught—a spell hitting her on the side of her animalistic form and burning through the first layer of fur causing her to cry out. Not when she and the rest of the women of the tribe were rounded up and forced uncomfortably on top of each other.

Not as the filthy magical poaching men hand-picked the few Therian women they wanted to keep for themselves.

One of her blood sisters had been among them, and despite her mother shifting into a monstrous beast in an attempt to save her—that only landed her with being hit by the killing curse.

Mavka had cried out, still shifted as a wolf as she nudged her mother hoping that she would wake up.

Of course, the poaching men did not care that her mother was dead—they only cared that her mother's blood would now be wasted. One less Therian for them to sell on the to dark witches and wizards.

Mavka had to sit and watch her as mother's dead form twisted and turned until she was back in her humanoid form—skin grey and eyes white from death's touch.

Mavka screamed as they forced manacles upon all four of her legs: effectively locking her into her wolf form until they were removed. For wizards, manacles were handcuffs that stopped them from using their magic.

But for her people: it simply blocked their ability to shift—locking them to whatever form they were in when the manacles were placed.

No one came to help them as they were all divided into small groups, Mavka was forced with a group of four other sisters of her tribe into a muggle vehicle. A large metal thing so loud that it hurt her ears and smelled as it pumped oil through its engine.

However, as inconvenient and slow as it was, it was also untraceable for the wizarding governments. Easy for the poachers to ensure they are not to be caught.

They had huddled together as they were transported—piled nearly on top of each other in the dark backside of the vehicle. Mavka was the youngest among the group, the other Therian women attempting to comfort her as she wept for her mother.

A plan was forged as they traveled. They did not want to go down without swinging, and so despite some of them being stuck in their human forms or other weaker animalistic forms: they all agreed to fight as soon as they opened the door.

And fight they did—completely taking the poachers off guard as they thought they had broken the fight out of them.

Mavka was not sure where they had taken them, but it was cold and snowy. She was able to see a port key waiting for them all feet away, and she knew that if they managed to get her there, her chances of ever escaping the fate of being blood-drained would slim immensely.

The others knew that as well, and perhaps it was because she was the youngest and locked into a form that had the greatest chance of survival in these conditions that the other Therian women urged her to run.

No, not just urged her—commanded that she run as fast and far as she could.

So Mavka ran, managing to bite the magical man holding her back by the scruff of her neck as he dug in his pockets for his wand. She ran through the cold and snow, dodging spells that followed after her and running faster than the footsteps that followed.

Even apparating became hard for the wizards when her lighter coat blended so well with the snowy forest around.

No one came to help her as Mavka ran until her paws bled, until her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that she thought it might explode, until she was forced into a small burrow under a log to take cover from the snowstorm that raged on around her.

No one came to help as she cried herself to sleep—alone and in the wilds of a snowy hell. She had never left the tribe lands before this, so she had not the slightest clue where she was.

All she knew was that she was unable to get the manacles off, so she was stuck as a wolf for an unforeseeable future. She knew that she was completely and utterly alone. And finally, she knew that no one was coming to help her.

At least, not for many many years.