Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I just love the dickens out of it.
This is my first shot at HP fanfic, so please please review. If you have any ideas for the story, I'd appreciate them. And don't worry, I'll be updating.
It was an appropriately dark and stormy night in Little Whinging. Of course, this didn't stop Harry Potter from being outside the house on number four Privet Drive. When faced with a choice between unpleasant weather and dealing with the Dursleys, there was no contest. His relatives were simply much higher up on the patented Harry scale of unpleasantness.
The moon was high and full, shining with a rare luster. It was uncommonly early for it to be so prominent.
The summer had scarcely begun, and Harry was already experiencing intense boredom. Hogwarts might not always be pleasant, but at least it was interesting. Magic, his friends, plots to kill Harry/those he loved/destroy the world/raise a dark lord. Perhaps all the intrigue had ruined Harry when it came to appreciating the duller parts of summer. Here he was, kicking a perfectly good rock down a perfectly good road during a perfectly good thunderstorm, bored out of his perfectly good (except for that unsightly scar) head.
Last year at Hogwarts had been wonderful. He'd met some old friends of his father's, and saved one of said friends from a gruesome death. The bits involving the dementors had been rather unpleasant, but life's not all fun and games.
Separated from his own friends now, Harry felt continually enveloped in loneliness. The letters simply could not come fast enough. He knew that his friends really did have a lot to do. They had families. They weren't alone. The only person who seemed to share his state of mind was Sirius. Snuffles was on the run, and just as alone as Harry, really.
Harry was also writing to Lupin. Though Lupin and Sirius, he could try to get a sense of just who James Potter had been. He felt like he could see this foggy silhouette of his Dad. It grew more detailed, almost colorful enough for him to see something more, with every letter he received from his Dad's two remaining faithful best friends.
His mother was more of a mystery. All he knew her by were the less detailed anecdotes of the marauders, what Dumbledore had told him, those nights spent in front of the Mirror of Erised, and that one Dementor influenced memory.
Shaking himself from his reverie, Harry looked around. This road seemed… new? That was rare enough. Harry had lived in Little Whinging long enough to know most of the roads by heart. This one was different. The feeling was different too, off somehow. Maybe even a little dangerous. Worse yet, Harry wasn't sure he knew how to get back to number four Privet drive.
Harry kept walking, past the ancient, massive trees. He'd find a house, ask for directions. Then he'd make it home before the Dursleys had a chance to miss fat chance him. Unconsciously, his hand found the pocket of his sweatshirt, and his hand closed around his wand. If I could just use a point me spell. But that was forbidden outside of Hogwarts. Quickly, he pulled his hand away.
His steps grew faster. Still no houses in sight. Harry heard a rustling. Without looking back, he ran flat out. Something was wrong. Something was very very wrong, he knew it. He was breathing heavily now. His Harry-senses were tingling like they were going out of business.
Now he could hear something behind him. Running, faster, or nearly as fast, as Harry. As he rounded a corner, Harry whipped his head around. Tailing him was one of the most ugly creatures he had ever seen. It was some sort of mammal, that much he could tell. It was emaciated but large, coarsely as well as copiously haired, and highly ferocious. That's got to be out of the wizarding world. Bloody hell. That's a Werewolf. Is it Lupin? Why would it be Lupin? Okay, let's assume that it's not a friend of mine.
And from what Harry had seen of it, it was gaining on him. Now would be a really good time not to die. All right, lets start with not getting bitten. For once he was glad of the lessons years of Harry hunting had taught him. Without them, he'd be dead by now.
Harry grabbed his wand. He put on a last burst of speed, and then ran to the side of the street. Damn damn damn. What works on Werewolves? I highly doubt I have Wolf's Bane on my person. Snape taught us this in Defense Against the Dark Arts, which must be why I remember absolutely nothing!
"Patrificus Totalus!"
And the creature continued to speed towards him, unimpeded.
"Impedimentia!"
"Stupefy!"
None of it did any damage. And then the creature was upon him. It bit a chunk out of Harry's leg, and the blood started to gush. There goes that plan. Things around him seemed to dim. Weakly, Harry tried to shove the hulking mass away from him. The wolf howled, and Harry passed out.
"Potter?" the voice said, softly. Harry's eyes sprung open. He was on a cot in a small, dimly lit room. His leg was swathed in bandages. He could barely feel it. Standing over him was a bald, short man in flowing black robes.
"Who are you and how do you know my name?" asked Harry.
"If you're looking to hide who you are, bearing a scar like that one's not doing you any favors," answered the man in the same quiet tone. "I'm Taryn Drant, Werewolf specialist and certified healer."
"Where am I?" asked Harry.
"Somewhere safe. More I cannot say. This place is protected by certain charms. It would be unwise to compromise our location. "
"Like hell I'm safe. I just got attacked by a bloody Werewolf!" retorted Harry, his voice hoarse. The man walked across the room and grabbed a glass of some sort of liquid.
"The attack you speak of took place three days ago. Harry, you are a "bloody werewolf" You've been recovering. We brought you here. We have some of the best facilities for dealing with the newly bitten in magical England. " Harry looked around the dark, bare room. Somehow he doubted what this little man was saying.
"Where did that thing come from?" asked Harry.
"Well, we found you in the magical community of Vaneluar. Not a bad place to be in magical Britain. But today, there just so happened to be a Werewolf on the loose there. We try to keep tabs on all actively biting Werewolves, try to track them down, but it looks like this one got to you before we could take him down. I'm sorry. You've still got a good chance of avoiding lycanthropy altogether, but we think it's best to hold onto you for observation at this time. "
"And who exactly is "we"?"
"Moonlight's Requiem. We're a group, mostly Werewolves, trying to stop other werewolves from spreading the disease and causing harm. You might call us a pack, if you were so inclined. Kallen's our leader. As soon as he gets back you can meet him. You should be done healing by then. He's a good man, one of the best, really. "
"And I'm here and not in St. Mungo's because?"
"Because St. Mungo's doesn't give a rat's ass about a Werewolf, even if he's the boy who lived. Enough with the questions. You need some rest. If you can, please go back to sleep." The man's eyes became cold, sad even. He shook it off and walked out, closing the door. Harry was left with an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion, and soon succumbed to sleep.