Author's note: A ficlet I found on my hard-drive that I wrote for 30 minute fics.
Don't own any of it, but I can wish.
Non-canon.
Of Wolf and Man
He watches as the beast's breath plumes silver in the frigid night air. Skeletal branches reach for the full belly of the moon as she sails between the clouds. Night is bright as day; all dark shadows and icy brilliance as moonlight reflects off the snow.
The wolf runs swiftly, quietly, and he runs with it. He remembers the feeling of muscles moving under fur; silent movement that makes his breath heave in his lungs, his heart hammer against the wall of his chest. Running for the sheer joy of flight.
He runs, remembering, as the wolf darts between the cracks of light.
Without warning, the wolf halts, snuffing the air, and he is shocked by the suddenness, the vividness of memories; the smell of the Earth, of moldering leaves and decaying bark, no more than a faint trace under the Winter's blanket; the smell of the North Wind as it blows ice into his nostrils; and the scent of prey, an elusive thread of promise that unwinds through the night.
He watches as the wolf stalks, belly low to the ground. Even though he cannot change what he knows will happen, he still cries out as the wolf pounces.
The copper-sweet taste/smell of blood awakens more memories - of flesh parting under fangs, of lapping up fluid before the night air robs the body of it's warmth. He watches the beast bury his snout in the warm meat with a curious sense of horror and longing.
He remembers it all.
A darker shadow against the night gives the wolf pause, and he watches as it raises a dripping muzzle towards the intruder.
A man steps from between the trees. He knows who it is, but he still turns away from the sight of the cowering wolf and the man who holds out his hands towards it. But he does not stop his ears from the words he knows will follow.
"Come home, Remus..."
He pulled his hands out of the silvery memories before he opened his eyes, but he could feel the presence in the room.
"How do you always know, Professor?"
"Know what, Remus?"
Remus opened his eyes at the note of sorrow in Dumbledore's voice and stared at him.
"You always know when I am remembering... this..." With a gesture of his hand, Remus indicated the pensieve next to him on the table. In the silvery water, a reflection of shadow against snow still lingered. Remus felt his eyes drawn to it.
"Call it a hunch."
Remus's lips twisted wryly, and he glanced up at the old Headmaster. "Your hunches were always remarkably accurate."
Dumbledore's blue eyes had lost some of their customary twinkle, and every line in his face seemed etched deeply as he gazed at his former student. "It has been 10 years, now, that you've been cured." He reminded him. "You don't have to keep torturing yourself like this."
"Don't I?"
The shadows in the room lengthened, darkened, before Dumbledore spoke again.
"Do you miss it?"
For a long moment, Dumbledore thought that Remus would not answer him. When he did, Remus's voice was quiet.
"Sometimes." He looked up at Dumbledore. "Not the hunting or the killing, but just... the simplicity of it all, I suppose..." His eyes wandered back to the surface of the pensieve. It glowed invitingly. "No worries about how the wizarding race was going to survive the latest threat, no fears about sending the children off to fight an adult's war." His voice drifted as he stared, the silvery light bathing his face in cool radiance. "No remembering that all those I have loved are gone..."