The Night the Wolf Cried
A/N: OK. I was just looking around fictionalley.org (artisticalley,
actually) and suddenly got inspired to draw or write something. And here's the
product. I hope you like it, and leave a review or something, even if you don't.
I'm sorry if it's not too clear, of it jumps around too much, or whatever else
that I should be sorry about.
Bottom line is, I hope you like it, and good day to you.
Disclaimer: Everything from the Harry Potter Series' world belongs to JK
Rowling. The rest are mine. So hah. Please don't sue. I'm just not good at
writing these disclaimers.
Blood. I smell blood. Somewhere....a bit near...a little way to go, but near....
blood...I must...have...blood.... Looking around wildly, a werewolf ran
around the shack it was in, making a mess of everything. It threw old chairs to
the side, creating a loud racket, the one that the inhabitants of Hogsmead would
take some time to forget.
The werewolf continued on like this for some time. The
stag! Where's the stag?! And that little rat... and that dog! Where are they?
They're supposed to be here! They're *always* here...!
A rustle of the cold wind suddenly came through the broken
down Shrieking Shack, the frail window finally giving in and falling into
oblivion, chunks of it littering the floor. The werewolf paused, sniffing the
chilly night air, brows somewhat furrowed. It was sensing something, but wasn't
quite sure on what.
It bothered the creature, whatever it was.
Suddenly silent, the werewolf slowly made its way to the
single couch in the room. It took a second to make itself comfortable, and it
would have looked amusing if anyone had been looking on. Taking a quick
surveillance of the empty room, the wolf rested its chin (of sorts) on top of
its right paw. All the while, it was sniffing rather loudly, trying to take in
the scent of whatever it was.
After a few minutes, being the impatient creature that it was
(at least when it came to things like these), the creature gave up. Instead it
lay still and pondered, as if human, wallowing into the worried feeling it had.
Wallowing into the bad gut feeling that was bothering it.
Something is wrong, the wolf decided. Something is
wrong, I don't what, but something is wrong.
~*~
Meanwhile, a few hundred miles away, a young, dark haired
man was bending over among a pile of rubble. And he was sobbing. Silently at
first, and then slowly his volume increased. Finally, the young man stood up,
and walked slowly towards the other side of the room. On the floor from where he
had previously been crying on lay a young woman, with fiery orange hair and
unnaturally pale skin. Well, of course her skin was pale. She was dead.
Sighing loudly, the young man looked down, a strained smile
on his face as he picked up a small bundle of blankets. He surveyed the face of
the small child he held in his arms, cocking an eyebrow up at the sight of a
lightning-bolt shaped scar. Shaking his head dejectedly, the man walked out of
the room, and down the steps. As he reached the landing, he shuddered slightly
as he caught sight of one of his best friends, lying dead on the ground in his
living room.
Licking his dry lips, the young man who carried the child
walked up to his best friend, pulling the latter's life-less body into a tight
embrace.
"'Till we meet again, Prongs. Wait for me. Wait for us."
~*~
Back at the shack, the wolf's unsteady mind had settled itself on a single
topic: The stag, the rat, and the dog. They weren't there because of
something, and he was feeling bad about something. Something must
have happened.
.....Have you ever felt bad, oh so horribly bad, about something, but wasn't sure of what? Well that was how it felt. That was how it felt, the night the wolf cried.