AN: I don't own either HP or SoA.
Harry followed the trail of murders all the way to a small town called Charming three days after he agreed to do it. To most people not in the know, it would look like a serial killer making their way throughout the central valley of California but to him and to other witches and wizards… To other werewolves, it was a rogue. One that he had named Greyback 2.0 in his mind. Only this guy went after everyone, not just children and women.
There was no pattern to the guy's victims except that they were healthy and sturdy and were not seen again, at least to their loved ones. Harry's own wolf was in full agreement with him, knowing that they would have to kill the rogue before too much exposure gained them national attention. The guy's name had been found only after a week's worth of digging, real actual digging, and during that time Harry had just called him Tom out of a lack of imagination. Maybe the guy was just running on instinct, building a pack, or doing it on purpose but maybe not.
He sighed and slowly came into land in the same street as the hospital, St Thomas, and huffed out a quiet laugh. The afternoon sun glared down at him and he was vaguely grateful for his quidditch goggles that had been spelled to act as sun repellant. There was a motorcycle parked in the street in front of it, as well as one police car. As soon as he tucked his miniaturized broomstick in a pocket and made sure nothing wolfy or magical was showing on his person, he walked up the steps to the door.
He made sure to thin his breathing, inhaling deliberately through his mouth for a moment or two before stepping through the door. To his wolfy nose, hospitals… stunk, in more ways than one and with his past experience in the Hogwarts infirmary… He hated it. Fear, grief, loss all smelled strongly to him, people's heartbeats echoing through the machines that magnified them. His extra sensitive hearing worked against him that way, letting him hear all manner of conversations that he would have needed a spell to hear.
He showed a badge to the information desk and asked for directions to the room where the latest victim was.
"Chief Unser will want to see you," the person behind the desk said, pointing in the right direction. "He's outside the room."
"Thanks."
"The woman… won't make it," the nurse offered quietly, shaking her head. "But I suppose you're used to that. Coming in too late."
Harry frowned and then shook his head. "I'm not used to it."
The nurse blinked. "You new?"
"Not quite." He took off down the corridor, walking around various patients, and heading to the pediatric wing, pausing as he glanced over at the intensive care unit for infants. There was a guy standing outside the glass window of it, and by his slumped posture, had been there for several minutes, if not longer. His blond hair reached down past his ears and the reaper on the back of the kutte matched the reapers that were drawn on the bike outside.
The guy's clothes-baggy jeans, big flannel shirt and white tennis shoes- seemed to hide everything but the slumped shoulders were very clear. The guy's heartbeat was slow, hitching every once in a while as Harry watched and listened.
The smell of gunpowder wafted his way and his eyes picked out the distinct shape of the gun in the guy's waistband. The guy also stunk of cigarette smoke, in a way that Harry suspected the guy was a chain smoker. The big knife at the guy's hip was not hidden at all either. Harry wandered over and looked out over the room of doctors and nurses bustling about between incubators that held only two infants, half his attention on the room and half on the man next to him. "One of those buggers yours?"
The guy's heart stuttered before falling back to a steady rhythm as he turned to look at Harry. Those bright blue eyes met his and Harry's breath caught at the very brief pain he saw in them and at the color. He'd never seen eyes that blue or that… weary. But only for a moment, for a second, and then that vanished to be replaced by hard suspicion. The guy tilted his head and looked at him like a wolf who had scented an outsider to their territory, his blue eyes pausing on the badge that Harry had yet to put away. It was still halfway tucked into a pocket, letting people see it.
It wasn't actually a real FBI badge or a real MI-6 badge. He wasn't an agent of either law enforcement agency or intelligence agency. MI-6 knew who he was, knew he was using one of their badges, and let him get away with it. If Harry recalled correctly, their stance on him was… better to ease his way into local police stations than to have him make a fuss about something. Besides… in the last few years, he had helped take down quite a few rogue wizards, witches, goblins and creatures in between. One or two of the people he had brought down might have actually been non magical terrorists.
"None of your business."
Harry stepped back and lifted his shoulders apologetically. "Sorry."
He took one last look at the guy, inhaling worry and an overwhelming amount of desperation-a sour thing that made him wrinkle his nose. His heart skipped a few beats sympathetically and he flicked his gaze to the infants again before walking off, heading over to where he saw the local police chief, feeling the biker's gaze follow him.
"Chief Unser, I presume?"
The police chief of Charming turned around from the door, letting Harry look him over. A balding head and wary brown eyes and Harry's nose picked up on the smell of sickness from him from a couple feet away. It was a bitter thing, tinged with radiation, and he grimaced. Cancer, he figured.
"Who are you?"
"I'm from the FBI," Harry answered, shrugging. He wasn't really from the FBI but explaining that he was… what he was or who he was… would take forever. "I'm here about the serial killer case that's landed on your doorstep."
"Ah, that. Yes. We were worried that it might have been one of the other motorcycle gangs in the area," Unser said, his gaze going somewhere behind Harry, maybe to the biker that was still hovering at the window. He could feel the blond's gaze on him, hear the slight hitch of breath from the guy. "Follow me back to the station. I'll fill you in."
Harry nodded and fell into step with the older man, keeping his breathing shallow.
"So… only one other victim here then? No one else?"
Unser nodded and watched as Agent Potter flicked through the files, as short as they were. It was only one box, much less than what the agents from ATF were working on. He had half been aware of Jax following them as they had driven down to the station, Teller's motorcycle loud on the almost empty street.
"That's the only one in this county, yeah. Do you need anything else?"
Potter shook his head. "If you don't mind, I'm gonna look through these. We still don't know quite where the guy is originally from."
"I don't mind. Just make sure to put them back when you're done. Is there anything my department can do for you?"
Potter shook his head as he peered at him, his green eyes intent. "I'm one of the agents they call to track down these kind of guys. The guy should be done here, taken his victim, and moved on, going on the evidence. I'll take off in the morning, follow his trail."
"You're close?"
"Yeah. He's going to get sloppy, soon I think," Potter answered idly, inhaling deeply, his nostrils flaring. He flipped through another page, skimming through the lines of information. "But no. The guy's not a part of any motorcycle club, in answer to your question at the hospital."
"Good to know. The Sons have been on my ass about it."
"Sons?"
Wayne lifted an eyebrow. "You don't know about the Sons of Anarchy?"
"No. I'm… new to the department," Potter offered quietly. "I'm… as they say… on loan from MI-6."
"MI-6? Do they have interests in Charming?" Wayne questioned, his stomach roiling at the notion. They had ATF in Charming and now the FBI and seemingly MI-6? Clay wasn't going to like this and nor was Jax.
"I'm not interested in the Sons anyway," Potter said, dipping his chin towards him. "Your business is your own, Chief. I'm just here to follow a serial killer. Who's the biker that followed us? He gonna get in the middle of this?"
Wayne sighed and crossed his arms. "That's Jax Teller, VP of the Sons. They have no plans on getting involved. At least I hope not. The case is all yours, Potter."
"Thanks."
"The killer doesn't use animals in his kills, does he?" Wayne asked idly, hoping that at least one of the theories going around was wrong. He had read the case files for the guy, had seen shit that he hoped wouldn't come to Charming, at least not while he was still in office. Not while the Sons were at the Mayans throats the way they were now since the Mayans had blown up the Sons gun warehouse.
Potter frowned before he shrugged, some memory flashing through him. "He might. I've seen worse. Why?"
"No reason."
"If you do see him," Potter started, gesturing to the photo of the killer. "Don't engage. And don't let your officers go alone on patrol tonight."
The wolves took him by surprise as he rode along the streets of Charming, heading out of town to lose himself in the road for an hour or two. Jax heard the howls first as the moon shone down on him, glinting off the motorcycle underneath him. Heard the howls and gunned the engine, almost roaring down the road. Several of the Sons had heard howling over the past few nights and no one had thought otherwise, though Juice had mentioned that there were no wild wolves in California.
The streetlights he passed were still lit up but dull, in need of maintenance. The stars were the brightest source of light, under the moon, and Jax pulled out one of his handguns, flicking the safety off, before riding on. The howls grew louder, more… vicious, and the sight of the first wolf nearly took his breath away, big, brown and ugly. He had seen photos of wild wolves in books and this… creature was nothing like it. The moon reflected off its eyes, almost glowing, as it ran alongside his bike, growling louder than the bike itself.
Its eyes were bottomless pits of black and wildness but there was a touch of… human intelligence to them and Jax halfway recalled hearing Chibs talk about the tales of the wolves in Gaelic myth. He urged his bike faster as he saw the other wolf on his other side, flanking him, the same size as the other one, same kind of ugliness to various headlines in the papers over the past week all flashed through his mind, the headlines of animal attacks, of a serial killer who used animal claws in his attacks, on his victims.
He kept his finger on the trigger as he sped over the road, keeping one eye on the road and one eye on the third wolf, as it came at him from ahead. At the rumble from the first wolf, Jax raised his gun and fired at it, aiming for its head and missing as another wolf leapt at him. Howls echoed through the air and his heart raced, threatening to rip out of his chest, as he fired again and again, landing a head shot to one of the fuckers. He didn't take even a moment to be grateful for that, instead firing off another shot at another animal. Another wolf leapt towards him and collided with his bike, with him, sending him flying off, landing rough and hard on the asphalt. Embers of pain sparked into fire as his whole side hit the road, as one of the wolves nipped and barked at him.
He grabbed for his knife and thrust it into the first wolf's eye, as it leapt and snapped at him, making it yelp and squeal. Blood sprayed outward, coating both him and the other wolves and then he screamed as the wolf he had impaled with the knife bit into his leg, shook him like a predator would prey. Jax yelled out as burning pain flared through him, setting his nerves on fire, as pain blinded him, making his vision grey out. Blood poured out from his leg as another wolf charged with claws out, scratching through his back, through his kutte, making him scream again, hoarse and rough and…
Smoke from his bike wafted over to him, over the smell of blood, of his own blood, and a raw sound left his throat as he spotted his bike. It was on fire and just as quick as the wolves had come on, one howled out and fled. The one he had thrust a knife into, thrust his knife into, growled and loped off, leading the others away, leaving Jax… to watch as his bike slowly sparked with flame. Lying on the road like he was roadkill, bleeding out fast and feeling like he was on fire. He idly, sluggishly wondered if this was how his father had felt as he was dying, being pulled behind by that truck.
"Holy shit, you're still alive!"
He must have blacked out for a moment but the sound of footsteps walking towards him, running towards him woke him up. The last thing he saw before his vision blacking out entirely were boots and green eyes as the man he had seen at the hospital knelt down in front of him. The last thing he felt were fingers brushing his hair out of his face, gentle but wary. A soft blue glow filled the road and he tried to make sense of the hooves he saw, the hooves that were… He groaned and tried to move only to be held down by soft but firm fingers and bright, hot pain shooting up his leg.
Harry's nose wrinkled even as he took in the sight of the biker on the road in front of him. Blood ran sluggishly from wounds all over him, on his back, on his chest, and on his leg. The chunk of flesh that was missing from the guy had been pulled out savagely and spit out a few feet away. He swore and then peered at the two dead wolves the guy had managed to take down with him, swearing again under his breath, half aware that his words weren't in English.
"You must be one stubborn man," Harry muttered before he reached out with his own power, Prongs pawing at the ground next to him. They hadn't even been introduced but at least Harry had gotten the guy's name from the chief of police. "Okay. Okay."
Jax Teller lay on the asphalt in front of him, bleeding out from multiple gashes and scratches, bruised up all to hell and yet… was still breathing. Harry spared one look at the guy's bike and then turned back to look Jax over, pondering what to do with him. He knelt down again and laid a hand on the guy's side, keeping him still as Teller tried to get up. Jax's skin was overheated, clammy and pale, almost as if he was just feverish, rather than starting to...change. He could hear Teller's heartbeat, hear it sputter and slow, smell the faint wildness that began to creep into his scent. He let out a low growl on human vocal chords before standing up, waving his hand at the bike.
The smoke and flames died quickly and the bike itself flew right towards him, still damaged from going ass end over. He miniaturized it, cast a feather light charm on it, and tucked it into a pocket, noting the reaper that was painted into the metal frame of it. The bodies of the two wolves had shifted back to human in the last few minutes and Harry winced even as Teller moaned under his hand, trembling. A raw noise left Jax's throat and Harry's stomach roiled at the sound of it, ugly and exposed, feeling Teller begin to struggle, limbs kicking out at awkward angles.
Prongs served as the only source of light for him, which suited him just fine. With his enhanced sight, the patronus was enough for him.
"Teller, it's alright," Harry muttered, lightly squeezing the man's shoulder, making sure to not press his fingers into one of the scratches. Jax's back was torn up, his leather kutte ripped up with a claw mark going straight down the middle, threatening to tear it into two pieces all together. The bleeding had slowed on the man's back, going from falling out to dribbling out, beginning to slow. The gash on Teller's knee though had not stopped bleeding. Harry quickly pulled out his trunk and opened it up to one of the smaller compartments, summoning bandages and flicking his fingers, muttering charms under his breath.
The cloth bandages quickly wrapped around Jax's knee, curling around the gash and tying off, tightening until Harry made a motion with a finger. Jax moaned and tried to squirm away from him. Harry tightened his hold on the man, wincing as Jax groaned at the pressure. "Jax, you can't move, okay? I know you probably can't hear me and I know I'm a stranger but…just in case you can, don't move."
Another whimper escaped Jax's throat and then his eyes rolled back into his head, his body going limp in Harry's arms.
Harry swore again, this time more vividly, and summoned the bodies to him, making sure they ended up in his open trunk. He called his patronus back in, letting the magic sink back into him. He made sure the bodies were in and then cast a feather light charm on Jax, pulled out his broomstick and scooped Teller up, hearing him whimper at the movement, before flying up into the air. The blood and scraped skin on the road were left behind, as well as the spilled gas from Jax's motorcycle.
He held onto Jax as tightly as he dared before flying north, out of town, into a few of the foothills he had seen. Harry flew around for another few minutes, with the moon shining down on him-not as full as it would be in four days- before he found a good enough spot to make camp in. It was a large grassy field, a few trees dotting the area, but no humans around for miles. He could smell a creek a few minutes away, hear the water dribbling over rocks and dirt. The stars and moon were the only things letting him see ahead, as well as his enhanced vision through wolf eyes. The night itself was dark and eerie, quiet, with a wind that had the potential to kick up to a howl.
As soon as he landed, he levitated his tent to the ground, keeping Jax in his arms, and watched as it sprang up. The wizarding tent that he, Ron and Hermione had spent that year on the run with stood up a minute later and he strode in, heading to the room that held a single bed, instead of a bunk, and lowered Jax down onto it. He breathed out and then got to work, stripping Jax's clothes off, gently pulling Jax up and leaning him against Harry's own chest as he pulled off the kutte, pulled off that flannel shirt. Pulled off the baggy jeans and unlaced the white tennis shoes that were splattered with blood and laid them off to the side, off the bed, leaving Jax in just his boxers.
He placed the two guns on the bedside table, checked both clips and removed the remaining bullets. Harry let his eyes wander over Jax's now bare body, taking in the sight of that pale skin. He healed what he could, mending the broken arm, whispering a quiet episkey, and hearing the crack of bone in the quiet of the tent. Sweat covered Jax's body as he worked and his temperature hitched up a degree or two, fever making itself known. The wolf making itself at home.
He cleaned the blood up and unwrapped the bandage on Jax's leg, vanishing the blood and dirt. Harry carefully levitated the man a few inches up off the bed and turned him around, onto his stomach, his eyes widening at the sight of that tattoo. Sons of Anarchy. MC. California. The reaper again took up most of Jax's back but somehow had managed to not be slashed up by claws. The tattoo was intact but Jax was not. He lowered the guy back onto the bed, having rotated him enough to work on his back.
He summoned a few clean cloths from his trunk, open at the foot of the bed, and slowly wiped the man down, taking off the last remaining drops of blood and dirt. Goosebumps traveled up Jax's skin as the wet cloth trailed up his skin and then Harry sighed, ran a hand through his hair and stepped back. A whimper escaped Jax's throat and he flinched at the sound of it, curling his fingers into the other man's and squeezing slightly in reassurance.
Harry had been asleep for a whole day while the change took affect, while the bite took affect. Jax… would probably take longer to go through it, with no magic to ease the way. And with that tattoo… He hummed a little in thought and then pulled his fingers away, made sure there were no bedsheets that Jax might accidentally entangle himself in, and walked through the tent to sit on his own bunk. He reached into his pocket and drew out Teller's motorcycle and resized it, placing it in the common room of the tent. It was damaged all to hell but he could still see the silver reaper etched into the black metal frame of the bike.
He swore and yawned, heading to the small kitchen and making himself a cup of tea. Once he made up the cup, he padded over back to pull over a chair to sit beside Teller, getting out the book he was currently reading.
"I'm getting too old for this shit," Harry muttered, keeping half his eye on the slowly changing werewolf on his bed and half on the bike in the living room. Hermione would tell him he was only 27, more than willing to tell her alpha that he was full of it. He sighed again and opened the book, The Fellowship of the Ring, and began to read.
AN: This was lowkey just an excuse for hurt/comfort. There's not much in the SoA fandom so I wrote this.