Chapter Four
Cry Wolf
He Apparated to the bottom of a hill in semi-darkness, twenty feet south of where he'd meant to arrive. He found himself in a blackberry bush. It was covered in the snow which lay thick on the ground, and was of course dead, but the brambles ensnared his ankle, ripping his robes and tearing his skin. He hissed and kicked and swore silently in an attempt to escape. Ultimately, he was successful, but the thorns scraped his skin deep enough to draw blood. He scowled down at the cut, and, after mending it, pointed his wand at the blackberry bush and blasted it to smithereens.
Satisfied, he set off for his parents' house. It was at the top of the hill, a crooked building visible in the falling night by the soft orange glow emanating from the windows. It was the image of Fenrir's childhood Christmases, perfectly preserved – a snow-topped cottage whose windows flickered with firelight, the scent of cinnamon and cocoa wafting through the door as Fenrir's mother opened it, and with a gasp of joy, threw her arms around his neck.
"Fenrir, darling!" She lifted her head and planted a warm kiss on his cold cheek, and he shivered as the warmth of the house floated onto the doorstep. His nose tingled.
"Hello, Mum. How have you been?"
"Fine, just fine, but come in, dear, you must be freezing standing out there!" She took hold of his hand and pulled him into the hallway, shutting the door and commenting on how cold his skin was.
"I'm alright, really," said Fenrir, a bit embarrassed at being fussed over like this again, but enjoying it all the same.
"You need a good, big mug of hot chocolate," his mother said. "Your father's in the sitting room – sleeping, of course. You go in and see him while I get it for you." And after smiling at him again, she turned and hurried down the hallway to the kitchen. He looked after her fondly, a smile forming on his face. His life had changed do drastically in the last few months it seemed he'd forgotten what it was like to be with family.
Agnes Greyback was a small, thin woman, who now barely came up to Fenrir's shoulder. She had fine blonde hair, peppered with grey, and a long nose which people often said Fenrir shared (though he couldn't see it himself). Fenrir adored her, though she hadn't spoiled him. His father hadn't permitted her to, and his father's word was law in that house.
Fenrir went to the sitting room. It looked just as he remembered it: two armchairs facing the fire, each with a footstool, a coffee-table between them. However, there was now the addition of a pine tree, decorated with sparkling baubles, the tip scraping the cottage's low ceiling. Assorted gifts littered the floor beneath it, wrapped and waiting.
Fenrir looked to one of the armchairs, and sure enough, there was his father, dozing. Although he bore a resemblance to his mother, Fenrir looked more like his father than he would have cared to admit. They had the same blue-grey eyes, the same cheekbones, the same heavy eyebrows and the same straight-backed stance. In fact, Fenrir sometimes worried that he would look just like his father when he was older: fatter, with grey hair and a bushy moustache.
Fenrir tiptoed into the room and placed his box of Chocolate Frogs under the tree, then stood up. "Father," he said.
"Eh?" His father grunted, awoke and shook his head. "Who'sat?"
"It's me. Fenrir." He walked forward, towards the fire, and sat in the armchair opposite.
"Fenrir? Is it?" His father leant forward, peering at Fenrir's face in the firelight. "So it is!" he spluttered. "My, boy, you've changed." He sounded only mildly surprised. At that moment Agnes came back, carrying a tray which held three steaming mugs and a bowl of gingerbread biscuits, which she set on the little coffee table between the two armchairs.
"Here you are, this'll warm you up. How are you, dear? We've only gotten two letters from you." Fenrir had written on two separate occasions, the first a letter which detailed his experiences with his new house. He mentioned briefly the fact he'd met a girl. The second had been after his first transformation. He hadn't mentioned his stint in hospital at all, or the fact that he now attended regular support meetings. He just wrote about his new job, and mentioned that he'd made new friends. He supposed he should have written more, but what with everything, the thought honestly hadn't entered his mind.
"Thank you. I'm doing good, yeah." He nodded, and picked up the hot chocolate, which seared his trembling hands. He didn't want to go too in-depth about how exactly he was doing, not yet; he wanted to ease into it, wait until everyone was well-fed and had had a couple of drinks before breaking the news.
"He looks different," grunted his father, taking his own mug and a piece of gingerbread, and gesturing at Fenrir before tucking in. Fenrir raised his eyebrows at him.
"Of course he does, he's all grown up now. Mind you…" His mother gave him a doubtful look. "Your hair is a bit long, dear."
Fenrir scratched the back of his head self-consciously. He supposed he should have trimmed it before setting out, but he hadn't realised it had grown so much. It was almost down to his shoulders now, curling wildly in all directions. Still, he'd remembered to shave his beard. He was wearing his best robes too; he'd dressed up especially, just to prove that he still could.
"Wait a minute, are you alright?" asked his mother suddenly, moving forward and taking hold of his chin, peering at his lower lip, which bore a dark vertical slit from being split so much recently. Her eyes flickered to the scar on his cheekbone, from the meeting months ago with Walden's owl, and then to a newer cut, just beginning to heal, on his jaw, from one of his transformations. "How did you get those, Fenrir? What happened?"
"I, um…" He shrank back, avoiding her gaze. He tried to chuckle. "I had an… incident… with an owl. It, um, smacked me in the face when I was standing at the window. Didn't see me there, I suppose. Useless animal." He gave a short laugh.
"Hm." He could tell she didn't believe him. Although she moved back to sit on a footstool, she still watched him warily, with great concern.
"So, erm, when's the party starting? When will everyone get here?" Fenrir asked in a barely concealed attempt to change the subject. His mother looked puzzled for a moment before a look of realisation dawned on her face.
"Your aunt Ida wasn't able to come. Your cousin's ill, with Dragon Pox, poor thing, and Hattie and Francis are fighting again so they've decided not to come. I wrote to Xavier and told him that none of the others were able to make it but he was still very welcome for dinner if he wanted, but you know what he's like, couldn't stand the thought of it..." And she went on like this, talking about the various family members and just what she thought about them, but Fenrir had stopped listening after the mention of Xavier. He was trying to think what he could possibly do now. His plan had been simple: enjoy the party, mix with the family (even the brat Eugene – he was good with kids), show his parents he was an absolute model member of society. Then, when his father had dismissed everyone in favour of sitting by the fire with a small glass of whiskey before he fell asleep, and everyone was content, he would ease into a short speech. But this put his whole plan out the window.
Fenrir became aware that his mother had stopped talking, and was looking at him for a response. "Er…" he said. "Is it possible that we could have our own party?"
His father snorted and mumbled something about kids and parties and good-for-nothing slobs.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no," said Fenrir hastily, hoping his father wouldn't think he'd spent the last five months partying. "I just meant, seeing as it's Christmas, as a celebration, seeing as we're all here, together again."
"Of course we can," said his mother, giving his father a dirty look. "You come into the kitchen, dear, and help me prepare the chicken, won't you? Loki," she said with disdain, "you can wait here. We'll call you when we're ready for you."
So Fenrir went with his mother into the kitchen, leaving his father behind to doze in front of the fire. They prepared a large, plump chicken, and stuffing, and onions, and carrots, and beetroots, and parsnips, and nut roast, and chocolate pudding, and trifle, and large amounts of other Christmassy foods. It was the same Christmas meal they'd been eating for the last eighteen years (or as long as Fenrir could remember, at least) and he had never been able to finish it. This year, however, as he prepared it and served it up, he was sure he'd be able to finish every last scrap on his plate. Maybe he'd even have room for seconds. Werewolves have large appetites.
/
After they were all fed, they sat in front of the fire, each with a glass of their preferred drink, looking into the flickering flames and feeling deliciously sleepy. It had been good to catch up, thought Fenrir, he'd missed his parents so much and he hadn't realised it. He was glad to be back, glad to be back… there was something he had to tell them, he thought dimly, over the smell of spiced apples and the delicious fumes from the kitchen. Something important… ah yes…
Fenrir sat up straighter in his chair, shifting around, trying to find a comfortable spot. His mother and father sat up too, apparently startled by the sudden movement.
"I've got something to say," said Fenrir, and he knew, as the words left his mouth, that this wouldn't be as easy as he thought. For one thing, his mouth had suddenly dried up completely, and his tongue was flapping around uselessly. For another, his heart seemed to have swollen to such a size that it was blocking his windpipe, making it almost impossible to breathe. And he'd completely forgotten what he was going to say. His entire speech had left him, just like that.
"What is it?" asked his mother, who was looking at his with a face so full of concern he wanted to tell her it was nothing, just to make the look go away. There must have been something about the way he'd said it. He knew she knew it wasn't good news.
"Out with it, boy," his father said, unimpressed with Fenrir's delay.
"Um…" He tried in vain to moisten his lips. "Er…"
"Have you got something to say or not?" demanded his father, crabby now he'd been disturbed.
"I do," Fenrir whispered, for that was all he could manage as he tried desperately to think of how he'd been planning to introduce the subject. "I… I… I told you I made some new friends?" he said, and his voice came out a yelp. His mother nodded, frowning, her eyebrows drawn tightly together. "Well, they… we… we're sort of all part of a group," he said. "And they're all very helpful, and supportive… It's a support group. I mean, not that I need… it's not like… Well. I've got a job now," he said hopefully, but his parents reacted only with silence and confusion. Fenrir cursed himself inwardly, and tried to resurrect the remainder of his speech. "My life is going very well at the moment. But something has happened to me. It's… something I think you should know about, because… because, well, it's a big part of my life, and… You might think it's rotten but I want you to have an open mind because I want to show you that it's not that bad, it's actually a good thing, really, I want you to bear that in mind. Please," he finished feebly. "I'm really happy now." His heart was pounding against his ribs. He tried to steady his erratic breathing, feeling on the verge of tears.
"You're happy, we're happy," said his mother slowly, "but what's happened to you?" Her eyes were so full of worry that Fenrir had to look away, and for the briefest moment he contemplated not telling them, making something else up, but he knew he couldn't. He took a deep breath, and looked from his mother to his father, and then looked away, to the floor, and began.
"Several months ago, I was in hospital for a short while, after I… after… being attacked. By an animal. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I didn't want to worry you." He was surprised at how calm his voice was; there was only the slightest hint of a tremor. "Thing is, after the attack, I… haven't been… quite the same. Sometimes I'm… I'm not myself." Silence. He took a sip of his wine, not daring to look up. "I was given something, like an infection… It doesn't change who I am. I just have something that I have to cope with now, and it's made me understand the world in an entirely different way. The people I've met… they're amazing. I want you to understand, too. I want you to be a part of it. Not in that sense; I just want you to know." They remained silent, still staring at him intently, looks of bewilderment on their faces. He took a deep breath, and a drink to steady his nerves.
"Once a month, I have to go through the… some might call it a curse, but I disagree. It's painful, yes, but it's been just as much of a blessing to me as it has a curse. I mean to say I… I change. I become… wild. But I don't harm anyone… I go away to do it." Still they didn't speak. They didn't understand yet. "Remember, this doesn't change who I am. It's just a condition – a manageable condition – that I have to live with."
He paused, and prepared himself. His parents were proud purebloods, he was sure he knew how they'd react… but he was hoping that he'd explained it well enough that they'd realise their love for him was stronger than any prejudice. "I don't want you to panic, and I don't want you to worry. I want you to remember that I'm your son. But, also, now, I'm… I'm a werewolf."
There was brief moment during which the entire household was caught in silence, letting it sink in. Then his mother gave a shocked gasp, and true to form, his father leapt to his feet, looming over Fenrir's armchair, casting an ominous shadow.
As a child, Fenrir, though he loved his father deeply, had also feared him, as all his friends who visited. There wasn't a child in the area who wasn't petrified of Loki Greyback. He was taller than Fenrir still, as wide as the armchair, the muscles he'd had in his youth still bulging in his arms despite the weight he'd gained. "You're WHAT?" he roared, as though daring Fenrir to say he'd made a mistake.
"Fenrir, that's not funny," said his mother's voice. It was trembling, and sounded very small and far away. "You mustn't joke about things like that."
"I'm… I'm not joking," said Fenrir in a small voice, and then something inside him rose up. He wasn't going to be treated like this. He wasn't going to have his parents tell him what he could or could not be. "I'm not joking," he said firmly, staring into his father's eyes. His father was seething. His entire body was rigid, frozen. Fenrir got to his feet, not intending it as a gesture of defiance. He just wanted them to know he wasn't ashamed. His father spluttered, his face turning red.
"Look," Fenrir said, "look at me. I'm not any different. I'm just me." He spread his arms, gesturing down at himself, showing them his best robes. But his father seemed to think the sudden movement of his arms meant an attack, for before Fenrir knew what was happening, he'd drawn his wand and was pointing it at Fenrir's chest. His mother screamed.
Fenrir frowned. He stared at the thin wooden rod, unable to comprehend it. He'd expected his parents to react badly, to demand an explanation, to shout and him and call him filthy names – but not to attack him. Slowly, he held his hands up. "I haven't changed any, I've—"
"Oh, you've changed," spat his father. "You've changed, you filthy little…" He didn't seem able to come up with a word that was bad enough. "Said so yourself. You're not quite yourself any more."
"I'm still your son!" pleaded Fenrir, not breaking eye contact, not even looking to the wall where his peripheral vision told him his mother stood in tears. "Please, I haven't—let me show you—"
"You're no son of mine," his father snarled, and his wand trembled, a gold spark shooting out of the end. Fenrir flinched, but the spark diffused immediately – it was just the wand's knee-jerk reaction to his father's anger. "Who do you think you are? How do you have the nerve to show your face here? After you've sullied this family's good name… with your filthy… dog blood… How dare you…" His face was turning very pale, a vein standing out on his forehead. His wand hand was trembling. Fenrir backed away, his calves bumping the armchair. He collapsed into it, his arms over his face – a pathetic attempt to shield himself from whatever curse his father would throw at him.
But the curse didn't come right away. Instead his father hissed, "Get out of my chair, dog," and his mother whimpered. Fenrir grabbed the arm of the chair and hoisted himself up, out of the reach of his father's wand, and not a moment too soon, for the tail end of his robe, along with the armchair, was suddenly hit by a flash of green fire, not unlike a bullet fired from a Muggle gun, that flew from his father's wand and left a smoking hole in the fabric. Fenrir fell to the floor in a heap; desperately, he crawled towards his mother, pleading with her for understanding, but his father's hoarse yells filled the room. "GET AWAY FROM HER!"
Another blast. It hit the top of the doorframe, which shattered, raining splinters of wood down on Fenrir, and it began to smoulder, ugly, black smoke rising from the broken wood. His mother cried out, but his father had already moved between her and Fenrir, surprisingly fast for a man of his bulk, blocking her from his line of vision. "Get out of my house," his father hissed, "and don't you dare come back. Don't you dare show your face around here again. Don't write, and don't try and make contact with her. If I see you again, I – will – kill – you." He said the last three words very slowly, as though he wanted to leave Fenrir in no doubt as to their meaning.
Fenrir whimpered. Tears stained his face, splintered wood clung to his hair. "But listen—" Bang! A smoking black hole in the opposite wall. Fenrir jerked away from it, towards the door. "If you just—" Bang! Another smoking hole; Fenrir didn't stop to see where. He was on his knees, on his feet, trying to make his way towards the front door. Get out! the wolf in him cried. He wanted to stay and reason with his father, but he was too scared; the wolf inside was cowering. Bang!
"And tell your werewolf friends what's going to happen if they come near me or my family," snarled Loki, as Fenrir stumbled onto the doorstep, the snow whipping him in the face. It had begun to take the form of a blizzard, and lay twice as thick on the ground as it had earlier that evening.
"I am your family," he pleaded desperately. "Mother! Mother, please!"
Agnes stood behind her husband in the doorway, blocking the remaining light from the hall. Her face was stained with tears, which were running down her cheeks in streams; she hadn't bothered to wipe them away. And she opened her mouth to speak, but her husband roared over her, "YOU ARE NOT OUR SON! Get away, you vermin!" There was another blast from his wand – this one set the snow on fire, a green ball of flame, burning inches away from Fenrir's hand, and the door was slammed shut in his face.
He stared at the closed door in silence but for his harsh breathing. Worse than I'd expected. He kept repeating that to himself, over and over again. For the next few minutes, it became sort of a mantra, one that calmed his breathing and his heartbeat and allowed him to think clearly. He told himself that this was how anyone would react. He was not alone. He just needed to be calm, to go to his support group, and then, in a few weeks, to go back to his parents and speak to them again. That was what he'd do.
But, a small voice inside him said, if you do go back, your father willkill you. And they won't want to know you. No-one will. You have to hide. You were stupid to tell anyone. You need to keep it a secret and get on with your human life as best you can.
But he squashed that voice, and told it to shut up, and ignored it, and did everything possible to pretend it had never spoken. He wasn't going to be ashamed of this. He didn't need to be ashamed, it wasthey who needed to be ashamed of themselves. Look at the way they'd treated him! Beyond feeling let down, he was furious. What gives them the right to speak to me like that? Their own son!
He turned from the door, furious, wanting suddenly to be as far away as possible. They disowned him? He disowned them. The snow churned around his feet. He left deep grooves along the path to the house, which would be covered, he knew, by the time the morning came. There would be no sign, then, that he had ever been there. He strode forward, a sick hatred welling up hot inside him. He walked over his own blood beside the brambles, which still stained the pure white snow. Of course, he thought bitterly. His blood was an abomination, a blot on anything pure.
The fallen snow crunched beneath him, and fresh falling flakes whipped him in the face as he stormed away, further and further, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. But they would be gone by the morning; he would be gone by the morning, leaving nothing but pure white snow, pure blood.
/
For a support group, they weren't all that supportive. They listened patiently, sure, and tried to offer advice, but none of them seemed to think he'd experienced any wrongdoing. They seemed to think this was what was to be expected.
"Your parents will contact you when they're ready," said Iris, but the tone of her voice said, If they're ever ready, and I don't hold much hope for that.
"But I'm their son!" Fenrir raged. "They're my parents. They're supposed to take care of me! Does no-one else think this is wrong?"
But they shook their heads and looked away. They were embarrassed, and sure that he would calm down soon – Fenrir could see it written all over their faces. They were treating him like a badly-behaved dog – a dog that had taken food from the table, tried too hard to be human. This was the equivalent of a tap on the nose and a baddog!.
He scowled for the rest of the meeting, not speaking to anyone, and not even commenting on how delicious Manny's specially-made mince pies were, though he took three.
/
He was still seething when he went into work after his holiday. He stomped through the back door, kicking snow off his boots and trod it into the rug (which swallowed it with a long-suffering sigh).
"Fenrir, is that you?" asked Fortescue's voice from the front of the shop. Diagon Alley was less busy now than it had been in the run up to Christmas but what with the snowy weather, the Parlour still did a good business in Hot Ices (which were much like ice creams but had a pleasant warming effect), mince pies and hot chocolate.
"Of course it's me," snapped Fenrir, adding "dunderhead" under his breath and immediately regretting it. Fortescue was a good man, it made no sense getting angry with him. But Fenrir's surges of anger had become erratic after the incident with… those people. At all times, he felt unstable, like he was standing on the edge of something, about to teeter forwards and fall off. He never did, though, but he could feel the wolf growling inside him. It frightened him a bit. When he knew he was being irrationally angry – for instance, when he felt the need to have a shouting match with his hat-stand for tripping him up, or his bathroom mirror for looking at him the wrong way – he was able to talk himself into calm, but he was always worried he was on the verge of something much worse.
"How are you?" he asked, hoping to disguise the bitter tone of his earlier statement. He left the hall and came out into the shop front, lifting an apron off a hook and tying it around his waist as he did so.
"Very well, thank you," answered Fortescue in his usual, annoyingly cheerful manner. Fenrir smirked. Having Fortescue around was sure to brighten anyone's day. He was a stocky man with a bushy brown beard and a round stomach, and twinkling blue eyes, always ready to hand out free ice creams when someone looked like they were having a bad day.
"You must be the only one," said Fenrir, wiping his hands on a tea towel. "Have you seen the weather, Fortescue? It's like being assaulted by fairies. Very cold, wet fairies."
"A winter wonderland," said Fortescue, persistently jolly. Fenrir grinned.
"Excuse me," said a voice. Both Fenrir and Fortescue looked out towards the counter, where a woman stood, holding a young boy by the hand. He was chubby and sandy-haired, pulling away from her, trying to look at the selection of ice creams in the window. She was youngish, but tired-looking, her mousy brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and a package that looked like a toy broomstick slung over her shoulder. "A late Christmas present," she laughed, when she saw Fenrir staring at it. "They were sold out. And I promised him an ice cream, to make up for having to be trailed all around the shops."
Fenrir chuckled. "Poor little fella," he said, looking over the counter to find the little boy trying to look up. "Oh! Hello! What sort of ice cream would you like, then?" he asked. The little boy looked taken aback at being asked his own opinion.
"Choc—choc'late?" he asked uncertainly, looking up at his mother. She laughed.
"Go on, then."
Fenrir caught her eye, and chuckled, and scooped out a bowl of chocolate ice cream for the boy. "Anything for you?" he asked the woman.
"No, thanks," she replied. "I'm putting my New Year's resolution into practice from now. I have to watch my figure."
"Oh, no… Don't be silly." He handed the ice cream to the boy, who grinned at him. "Tell you what, I'll throw in an ice lolly too. You make sure and share it with Mum if she changes her mind," he said. The boy nodded and reached out his little hand eagerly. His mother laughed.
"Thank you… Fenrir," she said with a smile, reading the name on his badge.
"No problem," he grinned. "Have a nice day… Er… I'm sorry, I don't know your name."
She laughed again. It was a nice laugh, thought Fenrir. "Leona," she said. "Leona Lupin."
"Well, enjoy your ice lolly, Leona Lupin."
"I'm sure I will." Still smiling at him, she turned to find a table. The little boy was being much more co-operative now he had his ice cream. He was spooning it clumsily into his face, smearing it on his cheeks. Fenrir turned away, with a stupid smile on his face, to find Fortescue frowning at him. Fortescue never frowned.
"What's wrong?" asked Fenrir.
Fortescue gave him a doubtful look, before saying, "How are you, Fenrir?"
Fenrir frowned. "Fine," he said automatically. "Jolly good." He didn't know why he said 'jolly good', apart from the fact that his head was spinning from his chat with the woman. She had the most beautiful smile.
"No, really," said Fortescue, "I mean really, how are you? Because you look awful."
"Oh, well, cheers," said Fenrir with a scowl, turning away and adjusting an advertisement in the window.
"Fenrir, I'm worried about you," said Fortescue in a low voice. "You look exhausted. Have you been injured? Where do all these cuts come from?"
"I'm just… clumsy," muttered Fenrir.
"No, you're not," said Fortescue. "I've been around you long enough to know that you're not. There's something going on, Fenrir, I'm worried. We can talk about it."
"I don't want to talk about it," said Fenrir through gritted teeth, faking a smile and turning towards the counter where the next customer stood, slightly awkwardly, as though aware he was intruding on something. He placed his order in a mumble, and after he'd left, Fenrir and Fortescue returned to arguing in hushed voices.
"Tell me what's wrong."
"There's nothing wrong."
"Tell me what's wrong."
"There's nothing wrong."
"Fenrir, you have to tell me."
"I don't have to tell you anything!" This came out louder than he'd expected; the whole Parlour fell quiet and turned to stare. He clenched his jaw, didn't say anything more until they'd gone back to their ice creams.
"Fenrir, if something is up with you and it's going to affect your work I have a right to know."
"It's not affecting my work."
"Well, alright, maybe not, but I'm concerned about you."
"Go and be concerned about someone else, you're wasting your time on me."
"Fenrir, I care about you."
"Yeah, well, you must be the only one who does."
"What do you mean? Of course I'm not—"
"I just got disowned by my parents, so there you go!" He was speaking loudly now, breathing hard, unaware that the conversation of the shop had fallen to a quiet murmur. People were staring, but trying not to look as though they were staring. Fenrir leant on the counter, bowing his head over the ice creams, the heat wafting up onto his face. "Merry Christmas, son!" He laughed. It sounded like a bark.
Fortescue's brow wrinkled. "Why would they do that? Oh, Fenrir, I'm sorry. If you want to talk about—"
"I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!" He pounded the counter with his fist. By now all the talk in the shop had ceased. "I'll tell you, Fortescue, and then you can shut up about it. I'm a bloody werewolf, alright?" He looked up into Fortescue's confused eyes, and a deathly hush fell over the shop. One man took his two small children by the hand and left. The rest remained frozen to their seats. "I'm a werewolf, and I can't – I don't – arrgh!" He launched himself forward hands outstretched, ready to grab Fortescue's face and rip it off. It was so annoying, so understanding…
Then he realised what he was doing. Fortescue stumbled backwards, and Fenrir gave a yell of horror. He bolted past Fortescue, and out into the street. Witches and wizards were milling past, but they had no idea, they didn't know what he was…
He ignored Fortescue's yells that followed him outside. "Fenrir! Come back!" His head swirling with anger and frustration, confusion and hatred, he Disapparated. He didn't know where he was thinking of; all he knew was that it was a field somewhere. When he arrived, it was barren, covered in a thick white blanket of undisturbed snow. He marched through it in fury, not knowing where he was going, not caring. He tore his apron off, and it fluttered to the ground, where it was to be covered with falling snow. Snow covers everything. He kept on walking, not caring that he still didn't see anything he recognised, not caring that his fingers and toes were numb, not even caring when night started to fall. Not until he saw the moon rise.
Is it tonight? It can't be tonight. It was too soon. Frantically, he tried to count the days off on his frozen fingers. He'd lost track… It couldn't be tonight. Not tonight. Please not tonight.
But it was. He realised, panicking, shivering. He tried to Disapparate, thinking of home, thinking of his house, but he doubled over as the pain hit his stomach.
It was tonight. Tonight the wolf ran free and cried to the full moon.
