A cold, harsh wind rushed in from the north. Winding swiftly through the forbidding streets of London, it wailed with malevolent glee. With carelessness born of contempt, it knocked signs and shutters alike and rattled against doors. Tonight was a night for mischief. Nothing stood in its path—the world quivered before it in silent fear of the night.

A piercing howl split the air—and in their homes the muggles trembled for fear of the full moon. While a permanent haze of sickly-green cloud covered the moon, there was no mistaking the shape. Tonight was a night for mischief—yet another round of muggle-hunting would be played, with the losers invariably the muggles.

Ever since the start of Voldemort's reign, werewolves were given full rights to do as they wished to the muggles. Indeed, every full moon the lycanthropes would be carefully herded to muggle towns for sport. Many wizards believed it a favor when a muggle was turned into a werewolf—after all; they then became magical and had full, legal rights as a citizen of Voldemort's empire.

Becoming a werewolf was one of the lesser evils of the full moon. It was far more preferable to the slow, torturous death of the victims chosen to satisfy the wolves hunger. It was also far better than the sufferings of muggles sentenced to the Arena.

With Voldemort's reign a long-forbidden form of entertainment was resurrected: the Arena. It delighted the new, bloodthirsty society to watch muggles battle to the death in the Gladiator Arena. And what terrible deaths they were as the gladiators were forced to fight against magical creatures and even the occasional wizard.

The full moon was considered especially entertaining as on the particular night of the full moon, werewolves volunteered themselves to the Arena to fight against the "muggle filth." It was mindless slaughter, and the crowd loved it.

Another howl ripped through the icy air, closer. The massacre would begin, soon. Muggles huddled in dank basements; some shifting uneasily, some praying earnestly. Others attempted to escape their homes, weeping tears of helplessness and terror when they realized they were trapped—spelled inside their homes. It was only a matter of time before they too, would join the many victims of Voldemort.

Miles away, hidden deep in catacombs warded—by sympathetic wizard-kind—against magical discovery, a small boy slumped against the earthen wall. Golden eyes closed, and a tear slipped out from stubby lashes. He had always disliked full moons, but this night was the first time he truly hated them. Before, a full moon meant no escapes from muggle villages. Now he knew the true horror that befell the non-magical on nights like this.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't right that he should remain here—safe and protected—while others faced terrors beyond belief with no hope of survival. He was a Select, wasn't he? Couldn't he just step out and stop the magic—the hurt—from happening?

"Chance."

He looked up and saw Adon, one of the Guardians of the catacombs. Like himself, Adon was a non-magical, but Adon was not a Select. Chance sniffed, wrapping skinny arms around equally thin legs. He was a Select, and therefore kept in perfect health—but that was the best that could be managed. Food was scarce, and he knew oftentimes a Guardian or Health-bringer gave his own ration so that Chance might remain fit.

"Chance," the dark-haired Guardian repeated, a note of worry in his voice.

"I can't help them." His voice was a hoarse whisper, old and tinged with pain—so out of place, coming from a child. "I can't stop their hurt."

Adon shifted uneasily. The Guardians had always sought to keep their distance from Chance, fearing the spread of germs and harmful substance that could so easily overcome his frail immune system. The boy was shielded from magic yes, but the shielding took away from his natural defenses against common pathogens.

Empathy won out over logic though, and the grim-eyed Guardian quickly strode across the room to kneel beside the boy. He hesitated, not sure what to say, but Chance spoke again.

"If I was out there, I could stop it. I could make the bad-magic go away." He turned solemn, golden eyes towards the man kneeling at his side. "It wouldn't hurt me at all and it'd help the others."

Adon smiled—a sad, pain-filled smile that spoke of burdens beyond compare. "You are only one boy, and a very small one at that." While he hated to aid Chance's feeling of helplessness, it was necessary.

"Maybe I could stop the bad-magic from hurting another very small boy." His eyes were hopeful, reflecting all the innocence of a 7-year old. "Maybe if they scrunched down, I could help two of them."

"If you helped them now, when you're small, you wouldn't be able to help them when you're big."

"But they hurt now! What if they aren't there when I'm big? What if I can't help them?"

"Chance," Adon began hesitantly, "if you helped them now, they would be safe—but you would be gone, and when they hurt later, you wouldn't be there to help them."

Golden eyes stared at him, unblinking.

"Yes, they hurt right now. Yes, if you went out right now, you could help one or two very small boys—but in the end, you would hurt them even more. They need you to be big—those two boys need you to help them when you're older—then they'll be safe. Wait, Chance—your time will come." He paused, and then muttered to himself. "Sooner than you expect, no doubt."

The raven-haired boy let out a sigh, sounding far older than his age. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Far away in London, another howl shook the night as the full moon festivities went on. Amid the wreckage of homes and bodies, no one noticed the broken bodies of two very small, little boys.