So... here goes the first attempt at a multi-chaptered fic! Hope you like/ don't hate my OC's. The story is pretty complex, but I'll be happy to answer anyone's questions about any of the characters or the future plot... GRRR... i love me some shape-shifters in the morning! I'm not entirely sure where this fic is going, but I'll be happy to take suggestions.
On with the show!
Prologue:
His pupils dilate as he stares unseeing at the frozen ground, snowflakes falling slowly over his twitching form. Dark hair lies unkempt over sleek eyebrows, spreading out on the white snow like an ink stain. His breath is harsh as it billows out of his lungs, meeting the freezing air and turning white against the sky. Little gasps escape his lips, punctuating the quiet around him with pain. A brown paper bag has spilt its groceries near his outstretched, spasming hand.
It hasn't hurt like this in years.
He muses quietly to himself that he ought to have known. He should've fucking known that this would happen. Sure, he'd read the news recently, those stupid moving newspapers that had always given him the creeps, but he's heard something important had been happening in the world.
Something to do with a boy, he supposes, but his thoughts are cut off by another burst of pain through his body. His mouth opens in a silent scream as the Shift comes over him for the first time in bloody years. His broad back pushes through the confines of his jacket and he cringes as it rips along the seam, the noise burning in his ears. I'm going to be sick.
He throws up as his ribcage bursts open and together again, dry heaving by the time his hands form into paws, bones snapping and tendons shifting to their new places.
He finishes the Shift breathing heavily, wide mouth open and tongue lolling between razor sharp teeth. Standing upon shaking legs, he tosses his head as though shaking off water and sneezes sharply into the snow, blowing snowflakes back into the air. He stares longingly at his ruined clothes, nudging them sadly with a long snout.
He hears a call through the wind and whines because he knows the owner of that voice and dreads it with all his soul. When he doesn't move the call comes louder, more insistent and pulls on his body, tugging him away. He bristles at the control the voice has over him and begins to trot across the snow, black eyes set angrily on the forest in front of him.
As soon as he hits the tree line he breaks into a run, long black legs outstretched. He reaches a small clearing and slows to a walk, hackles rising at the many hooded figures standing between the trees. He walks to the center and Shifts back to human, wrapping thickly muscled arms over his naked chest in anger. The other figures in the clearing avert their eyes, coughing awkwardly at the sight of his bare body and his cavalier display of it.
"Bloody Christ!" he exclaims angrily in his deep, rich voice, his mouth turned down in a frown, "Did you really have to do that? Can't you folks use a phone, or a fax or something? Is that beyond you? I've ruined a very nice coat, d'you realize, and dropped me groceries!" He stands defiantly, heedless of the cold, bare feet planted firmly in the snow. Compared to the other figures in the clearing he is a giant, and he seems to recognize the physical advantage he has over the Death Eaters. Worse than that, he can smell them all around him, and one particular scent makes him smile. There are still those who can help him, and now they are close enough to be of use. He opens one of his hands wide as he continues to sprout nonsense about dropping his groceries and makes a single, hidden gesture. Someone in the circle around him coughs in a familiar voice and his is assured that his message is received.
"Yes, yes, Mr. L'Antico, I'm sure it was absolutely devastating." The new voice is low and hissing and emerges from a pale mouth. He squints dark eyes to regard the person in front of him. The scent is familiar, but the features are not.
"Tom? Is that you? What the bloody hell did you do to your face? You look… different." Not to mention crazy.
"It's Voldemort now, L'Antico, but that's beside the point. I hope you'll remember our little arrangement from a few years ago, yes?"
He nods a dark head in assent, fists clenching in silent anger. Memories long buried resurface into violent images that cause him to shudder.
"Arrangement is hardly what I'd call it, Riddle." His voice has taken a darker edge; a slower, older accent slipping past his lips, dripping with fury.
Voldemort smiles, pleased at the violent response he's elicited, and steeples his fingers, resting their points on his pale lips.
"Well, then. I expect you to find a boy for me. He's not on the Trace anymore, and they're using protective spells, I'm sure of it."
L'Antico's dark eyes close and he breathes out slowly. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. It's not a request and he knows it.
He holds out a palm to the Dark Lord, expectant. Voldemort raises a non-existent eyebrow. "What?"
"I need something of his, Riddle." He spits through clenched teeth, "Something to track him by."
Voldemort nods and reaches into his robes, pulling out a white feather and a square of cloth. As he hands it to L'Antico, he grabs his thick wrist in a bony hand and pulls him close.
" This is a feather of the boy's little pet owl and a bit of his shirt," he lisps into L'Antico's ear, "When you get him, bring him to me. Straight to me, you understand? What you do with the other two that are with him is your business, but I want the boy and I want him alive."
L'Antico inclines his dark head in reluctant assent and grips the objects in his hand. He presses them to his nose and inhales deeply, eyelids sliding closed as the scent winds its way into his memory.
A moment of silence and he removes his hand from his face and releases its contents. The feather flutters slowly towards the ground, landing and becoming invisible against the snow.
He turns away and walks to the edge of the clearing. He looks back at Voldemort and wonders how he got to this point, his black eyes deep and endless.
"Tom," he says, in a falsely tired voice, "This is it, right? We're done after this. You'll let them go." His deep voice is layered with an invisible threat. He'd been waiting for this chance to slip back into the old ways. Riddle didn't know anything if he though that he could order L'Antico around, and a plan was already forming in his head.
Voldemort smiles falsely, "Of course."
And the naked man's body twists into a black wolf and runs out of the clearing.
Hope you enjoyed! I know it's a bit short, but the next chapter is already finished, so I should have it in by tomorrow