Prologue: The Boy and the Wolf

I own neither Harry Potter or Zoophobia. Harry Potter is owned by J. K. Rowling and Zoophobia is owned by Vivienne Medrano.

Warning: Contains mentions of abuse.

"COME HERE, BOY!"

'Oh no, now I've gone and done it,' a nine-year-old Harry thought to himself as he lay in his cupboard. Truth be told, he couldn't remember what it was that got him into trouble this time, not that it really mattered. All Dudley needed to do was mention something unnatural happening within earshot of Harry's "family", and Uncle Vernon would immediately assume that Harry was behind it. Whenever anything went wrong, there was no doubt in Vernon Dursley's mind that Harry was behind it somehow. In fact, the only reason Harry knew his real name, rather than thinking his name was Freak or Boy like the Dursleys usually called him, was due to the fact that the Dursleys did not want the schools to investigate why their nephew didn't know his own name. Harry thought about refusing out of spite, but realized that it would only make things worse. Opening the cupboard door slowly-even after a month, the bruised ribs he received from his last "lesson" still hurt-he gingerly walked out into the living room, where, sure enough, Uncle Vernon stood, face purple with rage.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?"

Noticing Uncle Vernon pointing downwards, Harry looked to where his uncle was indicating, and his heart sank. There, on the otherwise pristine carpeted floor, were muddy footprints that appeared to have a pattern similar to Dudley's treads-footprints much too large for Harry's comparatively tiny feet.

"WE TAKE YOU IN OUT OF THE KINDNESS IN OUR HEARTS, AND THIS IS HOW YOU REPAY OUR GOODWILL!?"

Harry never saw the blow coming. One moment he was standing upright; the next he was on the ground, holding his left eye in pain. Taking his hand off his eye for a moment, Harry saw his hand covered in blood. He heard his uncle yell some more as he was thrown into his cupboard, but he was in too much pain to make any of it out. Due to the way he landed, Harry's hand roughly jostled his already damaged eye, causing him to wince even harder in pain.

'I wish I could leave this place.'

The last thing Harry felt before passing out was an intensifying pain in his left eye, and a sensation similar to being squeezed through a rubber tube.

If anyone was in Albus Dumbledore's office, they would have seen multiple whirring instruments of unknown function suddenly stop, and in some cases, explode into pieces. As it was, Dumbledore was in yet another meeting with the current Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge; this time, like multiple past meetings, it was a desperate plea to finally give Sirius Black a trial. Unfortunately for Dumbledore, Minister Fudge would not listen to anything Dumbledore had to say, and was instead given an ultimatum.

"Albus, if you insist on giving Black a trial, then I must give this condition for me to agree. If Black is tried and found guilty, then I will have the Wizengamot vote to remove you from your position of Chief Warlock."

At this, Dumbledore paused. By the looks of things, Black was guilty, as Albus himself had cast the Fidelius Charm that made Black the secret-keeper of the Potters' home, yet there was something about that night that simply did not sit right with him. However, if Black were to be found guilty, as he likely was, Dumbledore would lose a lot of support among the British Wizengamot. He would likely be kicked out of that office, and anyone he would suggest to take his place would likely be immediately discarded. After a few moments of internal debate, Albus decided that he could not risk a follower of Tom Riddle take his place as Chief Warlock.

"If that is your condition, then, with a heavy heart, I shall drop this topic."

"Is there anything else we must discuss, Albus? I am a very busy man, after all," Cornelius responded.

"No, I do not believe I have any more items of discussion at this time, so I shall take my leave, Minister."

"Very well."

With those parting words, Albus flooed to his office at Hogwarts, only to find the instruments tracking the location of Harry Potter destroyed. After a moment of panic, Dumbledore hurriedly checked the instruments that kept him informed as to whether Harry was even alive or not, and breathed a sigh of relief that they were still going strong. Unfortunately, there was not a reliable way to check on his current safety, due to circumstantial variables and the ambiguity of the word "safety", but Harry was at least alive for now, and since his tracking artifacts were broken, it was likely that he was in a place where Riddle's followers could not reach, though that in and of itself did not necessarily keep Harry safe.

Queen was walking home when she found the boy.

She had just taken one of the newest members of the pack, Jayjay, to her new school, Zoo Phoenix Primary. She smiled fondly as she remembered the excitement on Jayjay's eleven-year-old face at the prospect of joining the werewolf pack; something told Queen that Jayjay would be one of the biggest partiers when she got older, if her ease of acceptance was any indication. That smile soon turned into a frown as Queen remembered how the parents of her new charge reacted. While Queen understood mistrust that werewolves received-after all, there were more than a few moldy grapes in the bunch-she was disgusted by how they would not support the decisions of their own child, simply because she'd had enough of the farm life. Suddenly, she tensed up as an… odd sensation brushed across her fur, currently dyed dirty-blonde. The feeling made no sense, but it could only be described as if a feather were going the speed of a bullet train. She doubted anyone else on the street felt it; as the werewolf Alpha, her senses were much more sensitive than most. The sensation suddenly stopped with a quiet "pop". Quickly locating the source of the sound, Queen turned towards it to find a passed-out boy who looked like he could not be any older than six or seven. Despite knowing that he was not there mere seconds ago, Queen quickly released her defensive stance when she saw bruises coating his tiny body and clothes that looked to be ten sizes too big. After locating a pair of eyeglasses that could belong to nobody except the boy, Queen gently picked him up as one thought ran through her mind.

'I have to find help for this poor boy.'

So, after a few years on this site, I finally decided to write my own fanfiction. As this is my first one, I expect mistakes, and appreciate any constructive criticisms that will help me improve my writing style. That being said, flames do not count as constructive criticism. If you simply call this story "bad" without any advice on how to improve my writing, your review will be ignored. One final note: I am a college student, so do not expect frequent updates. This is simply a story for me to work on in my free time.