Title: A Wolf of Seasons
Author: frkwerewolf
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: none
Rating: G
Summary: The wolf of Remus, in simple beauty. [collection of four drabbles]
Notes: for the lunar-fic's Season Challenge at livejournal
.Fall.
The fur took on a gold tone during the autumn. Though they never actually stated it. While Remus was no longer afraid to talk about his moonlit hours, he never asked what he looked like as a wolf. It was a shame, for the other four were in total agreement that he was, for no better words, beautiful.
The golden leaves and dark bark of trees made his normally gray coat bright. He could be spotted from a great distance, even from Padfoot's color-blind eyes. The other two knew, though, that the gold of his eyes matched the leaves that fell from the trees.
Moony was often caught by his nose. Pausing in their play, he would stop to sniff the dead leaves and twigs around him. They would watch as he spent the care to test the scent of each individual item. All before turning toward them with a growl and leaping through the trees. Paws digging into dying plants and cold dirt. Head tilting skyward. Voice echoing as he howled at a orange Halloween moon.
.Winter.
For a brief moment he could not be found. The silver shine of his coat had blended perfectly with the snow. They had to focus to catch the glimpse of golden eyes and black nose. Then he had moved, stepping in front of a pine tree, and they could see him once more.
Moony moved faster in the winter, they noticed. His love of outdoors seemed to increase with the cold and falling flurries. He would bound from snow bank to snow bank. Spinning, causing the snow to fly into Prongs' eyes. He was the only one able to find Wormtail, who was often lost in the deep snow.
The frozen ponds of the Forbidden Forrest proved playtime for the wolf. They watched as he treaded across the ice, careful not to fall, then taunted them into following. If they had not known better, they would have thought the wolf was Remus in mind, though not body. Then the wolf would bare his white teeth, narrow gold eyes, and tackle Padfoot to the ground violently.
.Spring.
He was allergic to the strange flower growing in the deepest part of the forest. The wolf avoided that area and chose to lead them through small thickets, causing Prongs to get caught. He liked the brook, rolling in the wet grass along it's edge and sleeping on the jutting rocks.
He howled the most in the spring. His cry erupting from his throat. It was deep and mournful, yet that was the only sign of sadness to grace the being's features. Once, Padfoot tried howling with him. The wolf had given him a strange look, then merely walked off as though no longer interested. Perhaps he only wanted to howl alone. The thought saddened Wormtail, for he was the romantic one of the group.
The beauty of the wolf did not lose it's effect during the rain of spring. While the silver-gray coat stuck to his body and he smelled even worse that Padfoot wet, his haunting gold eyes still shone with a beauty no one could deny. He liked to get wet, it seemed. While Prongs and Wormtail hid in the shelter of the trees, Moony would drag a reluctant Padfoot into the nearest puddle. These times were always followed by teasing the next morning, which seemed to fly past Remus' head in confusion.
.Summer.
The actual season of summer was spent alone. They had no idea what the wolf did, locked in the cage and basement Remus' parents provided. They did not hear his longing howls and pained whimpers. They didn't see the blood that stained the cement floor or the wounds that cut into his legs and torso.
The scars Remus provided the next year were enough of a visual. The wolf mourned his loneliness the only way he knew how. His pain was too turbulent as simple emotions. His need to tell everyone how sad and lonely he really felt was too great. The simple howl he forced from his throat did not reach the moon, like it should. So instead he bit and tore and ripped away flesh. Lapping at the blood and wounds, attempting to aid in their healing. Knowing that it would only happen again the next month.
He missed the trees. He missed the smells. Most of all he missed his pack. He craved the black fur and dark eyes of Padfoot, who would roll around with him. He wanted to see the tall stag who won his respect after fighting off his first attack. He desperately wanted to hear the small squeaks of the rat, Wormtail, as it fell into the snow or gripped Prongs' back as they raced through the woods.
The wolf let out one more howl, before dropping to the ground. Moony lay on his side, the wolf's beauty crumbling under his depression. And the wolf could only wish for any other season but summer.