One night, a man fell out of the sky.
In fairytales, this fall would have been glamorous, with background music and a grateful princess waiting in the forest below. Well, I don't know what world you live, but in reality, falling from a broomstick onto pine trees with thick boughs and needle-like leaves hurts. It hurts a lot.
It hurts so much you wish you were dead.
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Harry refused to scream. If he did... the Death Eaters were still circling above him, and thought the night was masking his presence for now, he knew that could only last until dawn. He had to think of a plan before then, before the light split the shadows from his body was he was revealed to the vultures wheeling above. He shifted slightly in the leaves, and pain burned under the skin of his back. Harry bit back a scream and a sob. He couldn't move, he couldn't move, he couldn't move…the thought just kept cycling around his head. If he couldn't run away, they'd find him, and if they found him he'd die. Not almost-die, not wish he was dead. He would actually die. There would be no more Harry Potter, no more Boy-Who-Lived, no more Gryffindor Golden Boy. It would all be over. Voldemort would win. His friends would die, as would his family and theirs. And so he could make even the smallest scream, and he had to get away, or the world wouldn't last very long.
With this mission at the forefront of his mind, he shifted again, paying careful attention. His back hurt, sure, but he was pretty sure it was not broken. If it was he wouldn't be able to bend even a little bit, bending hurt like hell, but he could do it. Feeling hope begin to glow in his chest, he found the spot where all the pain centred from with his hand. He felt sick as he realised the depth of the wound and the probability of a broken rib. Ignoring the agony, he tugged off his shirt before it could stick to the cut, and wrapped it tightly around his torso to keep all of his ribs in place. Gingerly, he stretched out an arm. It worked, but like most of his body, it hurt to use it. Harry was immensely happy that he couldn't see well without his glasses and in the night, because from the amount of blood he could feel when he grasped a branch that had fallen down beside him, because then he might just throw up. He wrapped a blood-slicked hand around the knobbly tree limb and steadied it in the ground. Resting his entire weight on it, he clambered slowly and awkwardly to his feet. He felt an irrational amount of triumph at this, his first step toward escape. Smiling as much as he could with a slashed cheek and broken nose, he began to walk. As he made his first step, he bit through his lip. He hadn't even considered the possibility of a broken ankle, but now he was faced with that reality. Refusing to give up, he tested his weight on the other foot. By some miracle, it was only lightly scraped on the sole. He gripped the branch tight, probably tighter than he should have done in his condition, and began walking, limping awkwardly and leaning heavily on his branch.
It was tough going. Every step was painful, as it jolted each one of his many injuries. Harry soon gave up concentrating on the way he was going to block the pain, since he had no idea where the end of the forest, and for all he knew Death Eaters were silently tailing him through the night. There was no point worrying about it: if they found him, he would die, and the only way they would not find him is if he found a place to hide far from his original position. He couldn't see well enough to find anything like a clearing or a cave, so he just had to carry on walking until it was the dawn. The time of reckoning, was the dawn. Harry counted sheep, but the pain addled his mind, and it froze after thirty four. He tried thinking of Hogwarts and happy, painless times, but his friends would fly into his mind, and with renewed determination he trudged on. He couldn't bring himself to look back, to face the reality of the short distance he had come. So he kept his eyes forward, and his mind alert, because doing anything else scared him.
He felt like he had walked a mile when he saw it. At first, his tired brain thought his eye had caught it because it was someplace safe, his own little slice of salvation. But then his eyes caught up with his imagination, and he saw the golden spheres in the darkness and heard the rumbling growl. Harry froze. His stick creaked and wind blew softly through the trees as if to accentuate the standoff between man and beast. Harry was barely breathing. All of his DADA books hadn't been for nothing. He knew this was no other regular wolf, the shape of the jaw and the tail were a clue of course, but that wasn't what tipped him off.
It was the intelligence in the animal's eyes.
When the attack did come, it wasn't anything like a film. You know, the long pause before something breaks the silence and the attack comes. Instead, there was a singled moment of stillness, and then the muscles along the monster's body and it was flying through the air. Fur was ruffled in the wind surrounding its body and the wolf's black rubber lips were pulled back in a vicious, predatory snarl. Its paws hit him first, as he brought up his remaining arm to protect his throat, knowing he had no chance if those gleaming fangs closed around his jugular. It was heavy, heavier than he thought it would be. It must have been the muscles it carried. The beast's claws gouged into the front of his shoulders, just above his chest. Harry squirmed as best he could, letting the pain it caused spur him on. He knew he couldn't allow the animal to bite him, no matter what. If it did, he would be cursed, just like Professor Lupin. He'd seen what lycanthropy could do to a person. It ruined their prospects, their reputations, their life.
And he knew that was cowardly, but he was more scared of life as a werewolf than death.
The wolf's head reared back in preparation of the final blow, and Harry used this momentary distraction to throw the animal off of him. The huge grey beast rolled half-heartedly across the grass, and Harry would have been attacked again within the minute if the animal hadn't slammed into a large rock that lay hidden by the roots of an ancient oak. The animal gave a yowl of pain and its head smacked sickeningly into the jagged stone.. He had used up the last of his energy in that action, however, and his arms were shaking as he heaved himself off the ground, his wounds complaining as they left the cool mud. Harry gripped his walking stick tighter than ever, and began to stumble toward the trees at the edge of the clearing. He assumed that werewolves couldn't climb trees, and he could hide in the branches until dawn, and hopefully the danger, passed.
Unfortunately for Harry, the werewolf wasn't dead or even unconscious. Werewolves, as the schoolboy was about to learn, have incredible healing powers. Their metabolism is so fast that minor wounds, say a deep cut, heal in five minutes. The wolf's daze ended about five hours earlier than Harry would have liked. He had reached his chosen tree, and the rough bark was just scraping his fingertips, when a low growl alerted him to the now-awake animal. Harry gasped, and then coughed as the motion drew blood and dirt into his lungs. His feet wanted to move, begin climbing, but fear and panic had muddied his brain and he couldn't think. He stared unseeingly at the angry, snarling predator, locked in a battle within his own body. The wolf, its headache fading, grew impatient and leapt.
Its great bulk slammed the slim boy mercilessly into the tree, and Harry crumpled sideways among the knobbly roots that arched out of the ground. The wolf stood still for a moment over its prey, triumphant and savouring its victory. Harry twitched in a futile, instinctive effort to save himself. The wolf growled a warning and the boy fell still. Harry could feel tears making tracks through the blood and grime that caked his face. Everywhere hurt, and every movement was pain. Later, if he was honest with himself, he knew he had been close to giving up completely and just dying. But the Death Eaters, hearing the scuffling of man and beast, and shivering at the fearsome snarls and growls that issued from the wolf's throat, had pinpointed his position. Down they flew, screeching in the satisfaction of patience well rewarded and shooting off spells with the recklessness of a Wild West gunslinger. One particular Killing Curse struck the rock stained with werewolf blood a mere metre from the werewolf's tail. It yelped in indignation and fear, and its head dipped to finish the blow. Harry screamed at the sensation of glistening white fangs further tearing apart his flesh, no longer caring if the Death Eaters found him or not. This final piece of agony was beyond even Harry's remarkable endurance, and he finally slipped into an unconsciousness fuelled by pain and blood loss.
The wolf gave a satisfied snort as the prey went limp under its jaws. It carefully retracted its snout from around the boy's shoulder, surveying its work as it did so. Curling around the bruised shoulder were a dozen tooth mark that bled sluggishly. Gently, almost tenderly, it refastened them around the boy's shirt and dragged him unceremoniously to a bush, where the werewolf and its victim would wait until the moon let them leave.
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The pink, fuzzy light of sunrise shone softly over the pale back of a man whose skin glistened with sweat. He was breathing hard, the body heaving and shuddering behind a pale green bush with spiky leaves. The man was naked apart from shallow cuts and scars. The after effects of the transformation under control, the man rocked back onto his heels, calmly observing the carnage he had caused the previous night. The boys was sprawled out on the ground before him, eyes shut in a blissful, painless sleep. The werewolf wasn't surprised, what with the massive array of injuries the child sported, and from he could tell, only a handful were his handiwork. There were broken bones scattered around the boy's anatomy. An ankle, an arm, and several ribs if he wasn't mistaken. The rest of his skin was a mass of gashes, scratches and the kind of cuts you just know are going to scar. The werewolf licked his lips thoughtfully before making a decision. Gently, he slid a calloused hand underneath his new coilean's neck, wincing as his fingers slid through blood-matted hair. The other arm held the boy's legs, just below the knees. With a huff of soreness and annoyance at the necessity, the werewolf hoisted the latest edition to his pack into his arms, and began to run.
A/N: Hey lovelies! I know, I started something new… I'm sorry!!! Anyway, this isn't going to be worked on till I get some results in that there poll of mine on how y'all want this to turn out! And, before I forget:
'I DON'T DANCE' IS UP FOR ADOPTION! WHOEVER WANTS TO BE ITS NEW AUTHOR, JUST PM ME!
*cough* Yes, I'm done now…