Disclaimer: Harry Potter © JK Rowling
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White Rabbit
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There is something special about children.
Little boys, especially.
Little blind brats!
('Oh. Oh Merlin. Am I...?')
Fenrir rubs his greasy fingers together, crazily uncomfortable, rubbing himself against the bench he's sitting on. He's lost in his distorted view of the world and twisted desires—to trap, bite and infect—that he cares little for appearance. It is what swells beneath that are important. He looks drugged, hair sparse, straggly and oily, grotesquely ugly. His clothes are stained with God knows what, nose running, mixing in with drool. He's the sort of man parents warn their children about, one who'd follow children into public toilets and offer them sweets.
Fenrir has sweets with him, today.
He's sent his pack members away. They couldn't wait, scurrying around, enraged at Lyall Lupin's words about how werewolves deserved nothing but death. Fenrir is patient. All good things come to those that wait.
The good thing is currently playing in the park by himself. It isn't that late, but no one's watching him. It is such a good little neighbourhood, after all. He's a boy of six summers, according to the scent—sickly sweet for Fenrir. It speaks of soft flesh. Fresh meat. Delicious. He's also Lyall Lupin's son, making Fenrir's mouth water at the thought of revenge.
Fenrir starts whistling a low, hollow tune. Amateurs would not hear the howling quality it possesses, nor would they recognize the melody (expertly performed); White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane. He beats his leg to it. Fenrir has been specializing in children for years now. He knows the tricks. Knows how to lure them off, and what to expect from various age groups. Boys, girls, it doesn't matter, but when they get into puberty, it doesn't do shit for him anymore. 'Bite 'em young', that's his motto. 'The younger the better.'
The whistling does it. The boy turns towards him, wide eyed. Fenrir grins, teeth yellow and sharp. He gives a little wave, but continues whistling.
Knowing he has the boy's attention, he reaches out into the filthy pocket of his filthier robe, dragging forth a brown plastic bag. It rustles as he removes its content: medium sized balls of dark red foodstuff, tied with thread. He theatrically throws one high and into his mouth—all for show.
Stranger danger isn't imprinted on the kids in the wizarding world. Little by little, he shyly walks over to Fenrir, obviously curious over what he's eating. "You want one?" Fenrir asks, and hands him one. The boy nods and takes one.
Bloody hell.
It takes all his will power not to take the boy then and there when he shoves the lump of meat into his face, pink juice streaming down his fat cheeks. He has issues keeping it all in and there's gristle around his mouth. He sucks on his stained fingers afterwards. "It's salty," he says.
"Mm." Fenrir's eyes are half lidded. The madness lurking there is very old. "What's your name, boy?"
"Remus." Gotcha. "Can I have another one?"
"Of course, little one." Fenrir does not mind sharing. He will have his personal storage filled up soon enough. "And you're five years old, right?"
"How d'you," he chews, soiling his pretty little face even more, "know that?"
"Want me to tell you a secret?" Fenrir leans close, leaning on his knees. "I could smell it."
"You could smell it?!" Remus' mouth falls open. So naïve. Fenrir's grin widens. He mimics Fenrir's whispering voice, mesmerized by this new information. "How?"
"It has to be taught. That way, you can smell how old anyone is—even how they look like, where they're from, why, their whole life story could be yours in an instant." The ability is also handy when it comes to tracking down the children of werewolf haters. Little Remus doesn't need to know that. "I could teach you, if you want. But it has to be a secret, and it can only be taught during a very special night. This night, to be specific."
"My father doesn't allow visitors," Remus says, sadly. Young males are often less connected to their parents than females, because of the belief that males should not be coddled. This makes them easier to lure away, and thus, easier prey. "And I have to go to bed early."
"Your father doesn't have to know," Fenrir says and winks. "It could be our little secret. I could sneak into your bedroom tonight. I would, of course, bring more sweets with me. More of these."
Remus considers it. "Alright," he says.
"Good boy. I will knock on your window, and you'll open it and let me in, quietly."
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True to his words, there is three knock on the window that night. His first friend! Remus has stayed awake to wait for him, grinning widely. It is very dark. There is a figure in the window.
Remus opens the window.
The full moon shines behind the figure's head, rendering him a shadow.
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The sudden flash of vague half memories hit him like a boot in the gut, and Remus Lupin falls to his knees in his DADA office.
This was just a private check of his continuous ability to keep it away—and it is the first time it has gone so badly. 'It must be artificial memories,' Remus tells himself sternly, and casts a spell to ward it off. It doesn't take much effort.
He tries to imagine the moon again, calmer this time. It's obvious why that's his fear. So obvious. Yes. Remus grounds his teeth tightly. His father has told him what happened, storming into his son's bedroom where Fenrir has broken through the window. His father has told him how he saved his son just in time, but the damage was already done. He tries to imagine a big bad wolf, biting him, gnawing on his arm.
Instead there is just a man, grimed in filth, telling him he's going to show Remus a secret.
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A/N: Thought that since merely being bit by a werewolf (spit + blood) infects the bitten, sex must also be infectious. Lycanthropy is already a metaphor for HIV.