Beauty and the Beast
We all have demons.
Most days we control them.
Sometimes they control us.
.o0o.
He howls, the shadow of the wolf burning in his eyes as he cradles her limp body, and he feels the first tears prickle at his eyes. Like needles, the salty droplets cut their way free, running down his cheeks.
Even caught by the arms of Death, she's beautiful. The waning moonlight glows across her sleek blonde hair. Her smooth skin, porcelain pale, is covered in sticky scarlet, her throat ripped open and left as a red ruin for all the world to see.
Despite the horror, her unseeing blue eyes remain forgiving, but still he howls, his body still overcome by spasms. His claws are still sinking into his fingers, his fangs are still dripping, extended across his lower lips, and matted tufts of fur are still evident on his arms and chest.
His pants are ripped, the barest tatters of denim covering his groin, and it's so stark in contrast to the sky-blue ball dress she's wearing.
He howls again, pleading to her, to himself, to the souls of his parents, to God, and to the Devil, hoping that someone will hear, praying that time's flow can come undone before it's set in stone.
He doubts if anyone hears, or if anyone but her truly cares.
(o)
He's six years old when heaven demands the return of one of its brightest stars, taking her from him in a single night. All stars burn brightest before they die, and she is no exception, fighting the illness that creeps through her veins, even though the sheets are drenched in sweat and she's coughing up bits of lung.
He remembers her taking his hand, her palms clammy as she clings to him and he to her, and she bids him her farewell, promising him that he is loved and asking him to stay strong. She cries out once, the light leaving eyes as she slumps against the pillows, and he remembers the Healers drawing the starched linen across her face.
His Godfather takes him in, but he's too broken to care for empty promises and talk of a better place. He's just six and he already knows that it doesn't get better, that it just keeps getting worse. First his Grandfather, taken from before he's even been born, then Mum and Dad, ripped away before he's even able to remember what they looked like.
Now Grandmother is gone, and though the night sky is brighter than ever now that she's taken her rightful place, the day is that much darker.
At the funeral he tries not to cry, but the tears come nonetheless, and he's sitting beside the coffin, biting his lip and clenching his fist. The traces of wolf blood burn in his veins and he wants to scream, to howl, and to let the entire world feel his pain.
Then he feels a soothing calm as a little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes takes his hand, and he sobs in silence, her presence all it takes to calm his raging blood.
.
He's nine when he realizes that they're afraid of him.
His Godfather and Godmother try not to show it, but he sees the way they look at him on the days of the full moon. They fear that he's like his father, even though he's never taken the form of a beast, but there's no denying the wards placed upon his bedroom at night.
When he plays with their sons they watch him like a hawk, and even though he knows they love him he cannot help but feel the pangs of their mistrust. He isn't a monster . . . he's never been bitten.
The wolf is in his veins and eyes, but it's never held his heart.
He wishes they would understand. Instead, he holds his tongue and smiles, morphing the amber from his gaze and keeping his hair a merry shade of blue.
It's later that year when he sees her, when they visit the seaside cottage she calls home. She's prettier than ever before, her eyes a brilliant, electrifying blue, her hair glowing with an otherworldly beauty. She's tall and willowy, and so perfect that it hurts for him to look upon her.
They play a game of tag across the shores and he notices that she never dares to touch the sea, darting away like a ballerina whenever a waves breaks too close. It's like she's afraid of it, and when he finally catches her and they both go tumbling to the sand, he feels it within her.
Her blood is of the burning sky, just as his is of the full moon, and just as he cannot walk tall in the daylight, she cannot abide the great salt sea.
.
He's twelve when he first hears her sing.
The lyrical melody of heaven flows like fine wine, the wolf's blood cooling as her song echoes through his ears. He gasps, clinging to the bannisters beneath the full moon, letting her soothe him with her voice.
The sound is his ambrosia and he grows to crave it, meeting her upon the Astronomy Tower at each full moon to hear her sing. It's a Siren's song, he knows, for when he hears it even he can scarce resist the urge to obey her every whim.
Her blood is not truly human, like his. The Veela heritage is strong in her and when she sings, mortals lose controls of their own strings, dancing like demented puppets to her tune. She can demand it all, their bleeding hearts upon a silver platter, and they'd gladly cut themselves hollow to give it to her.
She's too pure to think such things and he wonders why such things come to his mind. He wants to know why he's drawn to her, when he's so dark and she's so light and they have not a drop of grey between them.
One night he sees the fire burning in her eyes, the sparking, crackling flames, and he understands. She wears a human skin as does he, her wings and claws concealed by her mortal blood, but beneath it all she too is a beast.
They are monsters, the both of them, and he both hates and loves that she is loved and he is hated for what is inadvertently, the very same thing.
(o)
He's a fool.
The chains he uses aren't strong enough to hold him without his potion, and lovesick idiot that he is, he's forgotten to take it. It's too late to return home, to try and down even a few mouthfuls of the bitter Wolfsbane, because the full moon has just caught his eye.
He screams, bones breaking and reshaping, his jaw cracking open as it extends into a snout. The hair on his arms and legs begins to grow, covering him in fur, and his eyes take on their true amber glow.
Clothing rips apart as he rises up on his hind legs, still caught in that macabre state of transition when he's not truly man and not truly wolf, but his howl is cut short as he sees it.
The door is open, the bars undone, and his human mind is overwhelmed by the wolf seeking freedom. He growls, leaping forward and taking flight, loping across the dewy grass. Hunger gnaws at him and he hunts, spittle dripping from between his fangs as he catches a scent upon the wind.
Man-flesh, he realizes, and picks up speed, the laughter of children filling his ears as he nears the village, running faster than any true wolf of nature.
Then he's thrown back, flung through the air like a rag-doll, twisting through the air before landing on all fours. He snarls, baring his fangs, the hackles rising upon his back.
She stands in his path, her expression fearful yet determined. Her hand is outstretched, her palm smouldering, Veela fire sparking between her fingers as she warns him to stay back. The human part of him, the weaker half, sees her trying to keep him away from the village.
The dominant wolf sees her as an obstacle to be overcome.
He pounces.
(o)
He's seventeen the first time he kisses her.
Her fingers lose themselves in his air, her lips parting to let in his tongue, her body yielding to his touch. She pulls and he pushes, shifting between the weight of the world, hurling aside all prejudice and misbegotten hatred.
She has a spine of steel, he knows and he sees, but it is her heart of gold that draws him. He is a moth attracted to her flame, his trembling paper wings beating faster and faster as he circles, and yet this is the first time he's held her without being burned.
Her eyes are closed, lips tasting like a medley of candy and sorbet to his tongue. The acceptance he feels emanating from her isn't unlike the feeling of water quenching a parched throat.
She's a monster and so is he, but beneath her burning blood, her fiery eyes, her hidden wings and beauty, she's just so very human that it hurts him. The monster lies within her, but with him it lies without, and even though he does not turn, he feels it flit across his eyes.
The shadow of the wolf.
.
He's nineteen when he's bitten, becoming the creature that he's always been born to become.
It's a simple mission, his first with the Aurors since finishing his training, and he's a cocktail of emotions. He's happy, excited, terrified, nervous, and exhilarated all that once, and his hair flashes twelve different colours with every passing minute.
The mission isn't so simple once they arrive at the target location, not once the howls fill the air and they see that the moon is full. At first he thinks that it's a mistake, but then he remembers the briefings and realises that nobody expected the rogue Death Eater to have werewolf bodyguards.
Then there's a sour odour filling his nostrils, rank and foul, and he's knocked of his feet. The beast gnaws at his shoulder, teeth stabbing through skin like so many knives. He opens his mouth to scream and is rewarded by a mouthful of his own blood as the wolf releases, his ruptured veins spurting scarlet fountains into the air.
He splutters, choking, as the wolf pounces on an Auror who's come to his rescue, and he throws back his head as the burning takes him. The venom courses through his veins, turning him from within.
The wolf is free.
He howls – losing his sight as the world goes black.
.
He's twenty years old when she finds him, somehow having tracked him down even after he's been running for ten months. His old life is behind him, because now he's a monster, truly and utterly, and there's nothing she can do to keep him safe.
She slaps him . . . hard, tears filling her eyes. Then she reminds him of their promise to one another, to stand together always and forever, till the stars bleed in the heavens. He wants to turn and run, to flee, to not look back, but she grabs him by the collar and forces him against the wall.
Her lips are sweeter than ever upon his and soon enough he's naked, as is she, and they're lost in each other upon his tattered sheets. Nails leave bloody streaks down his back, his love-bites drawing blood upon her throat, and he laps at each wound, leaving it clean and swollen before finding an unmarked spot.
Legs hook around his lower back, and it's not just sex and they're not just making love to each other, but he's finding his mate. Two alphas forming a pack between them, ready to take on the world together, ready to leave it all behind.
When he's sated he collapses against her, panting into her shoulder, their legs tangled together as he breathes her in. He falls asleep at her side . . . but when he wakes, he sees the full moon rising into the sky.
(o)
He's just pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt as he flies out the door, his potion forgotten in his shabby kitchen. Barefoot, he races for the shed, feelings the first spasms of transformation ripple through his body.
The shed door slams behind him and he expects it to seal by magic as it always does, so he doesn't stop to check before pulling on the chains, a scream bursting from his lips as his vertebrae shoves up against his skin, protruding along his back like the scales of a crocodile before reshaping.
It hurts, it hurts so bad, but he closes his eyes and breathes in her scent, still heavy across his skin.
There will be a dawn tomorrow, he hopes, and she will be by his side.
Then the first chain snaps and he only feels cold, so very, very cold.
.o0o.
"Victoire," he pleads to girl in his arms, mauled by the beast that he is doomed to become, "Victoire, please, please wake up."