Disclaimer: all characters belong to J K Rowling and Warner brothers.
a/n This story is dedicated to Moonlight, whose story Unicorn Child was the fuel for this idea! Alternative Universe.
December
By neutral
Chapter two - a wolf and a boy
*November 21st, four years later*
The gentle scraping of thirty quills against parchment pinched his stomach and set his nerves against ice.
Remus Lupin examined the reflection of his glass on the plane of the window, listlessly watching the dancing of long white feathers, thick chocolate feathers, even a few stiff sugar quills flick across paper. The sky was already darkening in the afternoon sky, sinking across the barren Hogwarts grounds leaving a thick mire of silence.
Winter was early this year. Remus ran his fingers across the plane of the window, tracing a thin crack that marred its surface; the icy sheet fogged under his hand.
A soft whistle vibrated from his wrist, the shrill ring of his alarm that was carefully adjusted for inhuman ears. Remus left his place by the windows and padded soundlessly to the front of the classroom.
"Pass in your tests, please." A collective groan from the students, and Remus felt slightly guilty at grinning in amusement. He tapped the edge of the desk. "Now, please."
Students made their way to the front of the class, their grim and disgruntled faces drifting past. Heavy feet shuffled around him as sheets of parchment was paid in a haphazard pile one by one. Remus humored them by smiling as he carefully gathered the tests into a thick pile.
"I'm sure you all did fine," Remus assured them.
The depression in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom thickened perceptibly by inches. His smile must have been aggravating to those sleep deprived students, and he quickly sombered. The first day of midterms never presented any happy faces on his pupils, with the two week reprieve lingering just out of reach and another five exams looming ahead. Remus sighed inwardly, recalling a time when he grimaced just like the rest of them, lugging behind him his thick book bag beside his friends. Now, those memories seemed like some distant dreams, too flimsy and seamless to real.
"Grades will be posted Friday morning," Remus added to the stream of departing students. "Any questions or concerns, please contact me in my office personally. I wish you all a good luck for your potions exam."
More groans, although they sounded suspiciously like wails to his ears.
The door slid quietly shut behind the last departing student, and Remus crumpled into his chair with a sigh that seemed to drain his lungs out of his last breath of air. The second exam into the day, and he already felt as if he had been steamrolled against muggle pavement. Remus eyed the two stacks of parchment, taller than his chipped mug, and fought the urge to groan aloud.
Before Friday? Why had he promised them that? With a rueful sigh, Remus slowly spread the bleeding sheets of yellowing paper across his desk and squinted at the varying degrees of illegibility. Some of these students had handwriting worse than Sirius' during his first year.
Sirius… he would laugh if he saw him now. He'd slap him on the back and…
Remus' train of thought broke abruptly as he remembered the thin envelop sitting by his bedside. Where was Sirius? Spain? Romania?
Remus nervously tapped his fingers against his desk and bit his lip habitually in thought. The last post he received from Sirius was three days ago, and he had been in northern Scotland, not far from Hogwarts and the flat they shared in Hogsmead during holidays. But aurors could be relocated every other day with just a few hours notice. Despite Voldemort's demise four years ago, dark arts activities were still prevalent throughout Europe. Three years ago, Sirius would send him a call through floo to alert him, but that habit had eroded through the years. Remus had classes to teach five days out of the week, Sirius had missions to attend to sometimes for days on end. With their erratic schedules, neither could keep up with each other's lives.
Once in a while, in between assignments, Sirius would drop in and crash, transfiguring his divan into a large four poster and slugging in Remus' dorm for days. During those times, Remus could almost imagine Sirius as the bright eyed boy he knew years ago. But that never lasted.
After Lily and James' death and Peter's disappearance, Sirius vacillated between drowning himself in work and aimlessly hunting for revenge. Peter, as always, was elusive, but Sirius was determined. A few times, Remus had visited him in the middle of an assignment to find his remaining friend strung taunt, face unshaven, eyes bloodshot, driven to the edges of endurance. By the week, he bounced back as if he had done nothing more than emerge from a cold shower after two days of sleep and seventeen pieces of toast. But even then, the word 'Wormtail' hung at the tip of his tongue and he would curse him in every other sentence.
But that was the way Sirius lived.
When Sirius emerged from Dumbledore's office that Halloween, after being forcibly dragged, his mind had been focused solely on revenge. That was what he hunted for; even after four years, he did not show any signs of relenting.
Sirius had changed, far more than Remus was willing to admit. Because every time he compared Sirius to the carefree boy he remembered, and then himself to his past, Remus would realize just how much he didn't change. Just how much he was still like that quiet, withdrawn, soft spoken boy who followed the tides along with his friends, with his family, without creating any for himself.
Perhaps that was why he couldn't seem to understand Sirius. He didn't care for the past; he cared about living.
And strangely, that thought always left a bitter pang of guilt in the back of his throat. It was James and Lily who died, but all he could do was sit and mourn. Why couldn't he show more? But it had been so difficult. With the James and Lily he knew being twisted into two legendary heroes elevated to the point of sacredness, he couldn't seem to relate them as once being two very normal people who had been his closest friends.
Now, they were renown heroes, credited as martyrs who brought down Voldemort at the cost of their own lives. How they managed was a mystery, but their names were traced with gold letterings in every history book. Their son, Harry, was forgotten, noted simply as the child who had disappeared in the mound of ash which remained of their home. His body, they claimed, had desecrated beyond any point of identification.
Remus forgot him sometimes too, when he visited James and Lily's graves with Sirius. Standing by the stones, he would lay flowers only to find he had neglected the child's. The boy had been so young when he died, he faded in Remus' memories beside James and Lily's. What had been the color of his eyes? What had been his first word? Remus couldn't remember, but neither could Sirius. They were just like those bland history books, Remus realized, idealizing James and Lily but burying their son behind sheets of parchment.
But he had barely known the child. James and Lily had been hiding, he himself had grown distant. He had perhaps only seen the boy four times after his birth, and even then, those visits were strained, but…
Harry had been too young to die. An infant, barely over a year old, scorched to death in flames. It made his mouth dry just trying to imagine, the small child's eyes wide in fright and pain, his pain filled wails carrying through the night air.
It was a terrible death for someone so young.
Gray eyes watched dawn. Watched the peeling wooden walls. Watched the dozing animals laying against the straw. Watched the cracked planes of glass that hung on the empty windows. Then turned to watch the peach colored cub curled with its slender arms around his gangly legs and its strange, small face buried in its distorted paws. Lowering his head, the wolf pressed its muzzle against the cub's unruly mop of fur, the only patch of fur on its small body, and breathed softly. The cub made a small sound in the back of its throat, too low to sound wolflike, and squirmed away. Its face peaked through his arms, revealing a small snout too short, eyes too oval, and ears too small to be like his father.
An ugly, hairless cub.
The wolf had to hide his cub into the twolegs territory when it became too cold, just to keep it from fading away. The rest of his sons and daughters sprouted hair and grew warm, but this thing remained as naked as the day he dug it bleeding and burned from rubble. It would never have fur like the rest of his pack. When the rains came and ice caked the earth, it would shiver, turn blue, and wail silently as he fell and bled on the cold ground. The wolf had given up making it endure.
Pitiful thing.
The wolf rested his head on the cub's smooth back lightly. The thing was more wearisome than females. He had spent more hours with this cub than his true children just to ensure its survival. He had to constantly wander into the twolegs territories and drag their sheets off clotheslines, to keep his cub from dying from the winter chill. He had to run behind the pack and, sometimes, drag the thing on his back to compensate for its jerky gait. Troublesome thing.
But it was still his cub.
The wolf lightly nipped at its small ear, tugging gently when it was still unresponsive. It protested with a small, irritated growl, but the wolf nudged it again. They had to leave before the rest of them arrived. It wasn't safe to stay.
The cub moaned in protest, turning away still.
The wolf barked out an angry snarl. He could feel the cub jerk away at the tone. The thing scrambled unsteadily to its paws, and watched him meekly with its head bowed. The wraps of torn fabric stolen from the twolegs hung loosely about its small frame, longer and thinner than the rest of the pack. The only fur it hand was a wild and tangled mop on its head that refused to lie flat for insulation. It looked white to the wolf's colorblind eyes, except for the grayer patches of burn scars on its back, but he had never seen twolegs close enough to determine if his cub was normal.
Very odd, it was.
Catching the collar of its dirt caked, tattered fur -- cloth really, but it served as fur -- the wolf led it quickly out of the wooden barn that reeked of corrupted animals. A place for the twolegs to place their tamed pets, the wolf noted in distaste. They still stupidly slept as he dragged his cub out of the warm enclosure and into the wind-whipped grounds.
His cub despised the winter months.
The thing whimpered as its paws sank into the snow. It shook and its teeth rattled. The wolf nudged its back to force it further, urging it to keep moving for warmth. But the thing only whimpered more and sank to four paws on the white grass.
Move! the wolf barked out.
The thin cub clambered up and hurried forward on unsteady feet. They tread silently into the thicket of bare trees, the cub breathing heavily and running to keep up with his walking pace. The wolf sniffed the air and let out a shrill bark as the rest of his pack filtered through the woods around them.
It was time.
Faster! His father snarled out, but the boy was already ripping through the spidery brush as fast as he could without his legs crumbling beneath him.
The boy nimbly leaped over a fallen tree with practiced grace, feet pounding into the soft snow that caked the thicket floors. The branches were razor sharp as they racked past him, but he was used to that now. The snow was no longer cold enough to eat into his flesh; flying between the trees alongside his father, he could barely feel the ground beneath his feet.
He was as fast as them! Even as a cripple on two paws instead of four, he could be as fast as his family.
But the rest of the pack was tearing ahead. His father was slowing his pace to match his. Grinding his teeth in humiliation, the boy fought to drive himself faster, barely dodging the scattered branches that laid in his path.
Stay behind, came the quiet command. With barely a glance over his shoulder, his father leaped ahead, bounding with strides that the boy would fall into a heap on the ground trying to match, and took his place at the lead.
The boy made a strangled growl of frustration.
His legs were already weakening, his feet bruised and sore. Every gasp sent a sharp pang of icy pain through his sides, and his lungs were burning from the cold air. But he forced himself to run faster, faster, just like his father and just like his brothers and his sisters, who streaked ahead of him like gray blurs of color, faster so he could run along side them as an equal, faster so he could be like his brother who was younger but stronger.
His foot snagged a crevasse on the ground, and the entire sky tilted at an odd angle. The boy choked back a strangled gasp of pain as he collided hard against the moist ground.
The sound of a dozen paws striking the snow faded away in the distance.
Coughing and gasping for air, the boy slowly eased himself to his knees, blinking back the sting of tears that burst in his eyes from the sudden stab of pain.
Why couldn't he be as fast as them? It didn't matter if he was a cripple with two feet, he should still be as fast as them. But when he tried to leap like his brothers did, he simply fell. When they sniffed the grounds for a prey's scent, he could only watch and breath wisps of bland air. When they perked up their ears, he could do nothing but shuffle his feet in irritation. Father said that he had been burned when he was very young, and that was why he wasn't like the rest. But it shouldn't matter he had no fur, no ears, small eyes, and long limbs, he was still a wolf!
He angrily bared his teeth and kicked at a pile of snow.
That burn… that burn left on his back because of those twolegs! They were the ones who burned him, Father had said. They were the reason why he couldn't be like the rest. He would hunt one if he ever saw one, even if Father insisted that they tasted terrible. What did they look like? It was a pity he had never seen one. Father always tried to hide him when they were nearby, growling under his breath that they were dangerous, evil, vile creatures who deserved to be killed.
Damned twolegs, cursing him to walk like them…
The boy followed the imprints on the snow, padding lightly after the pack. They were heading two a clearing, one of their places that they created to raise their dumb animals. The boy picked up his gait in excited anticipation. Perhaps he'd see a twoleg today, and perhaps, Father would let him hunt today, even if those things did taste terrible. The boy's hand instinctively sought the sharpened blade that he had dug up in the soil months ago, the blade that he had substituted for his clawless hands. How fast did twolegs run?
Heaving himself over the trunk of a fallen tree, the boy leaped nimbly on his surface and, just for amusement, skipped lightly across its warm bark. His father didn't like him standing so tall, but he liked jumping and climbing. He threw his head back, letting his face soak in the sun and raking his thick, matted hair from his forehead. The sun was hot.
So would the blood be, when his father went for the kill. The animal would foam at the mouth and shriek out in pain when the wolves sank its teeth in its skin. Its gait would titter and its body would sway, before it collapsed like a limp sack of boneless meat against the ground. The boy bit the inside of his cheek to contain his excitement.
Blood was sweet, warm, bitter all at once. Like a mouthful of ripe red berries that dissolved on his tongue.
Smiling eagerly, he leaped off the fallen tree and dashed across the grounds after the wolves.
"I'm telling you, these attacks are not from werewolves!" Sirius slammed his fist against the desk hard, ignoring the clink of china that reverberated against the force. A cup tilted and warm tea pooled around his hands.
The director of the Magical Creatures Department leaned back idly in his chair, lips pinched delicately in thoughtful contemplation. Sirius gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to grab the irritatingly composed man by the front of his robes and yelling.
"These killings are not…" Sirius gestured aimlessly at the frozen muggle photographs of shredded corpses in an effort to curb his frustration. "These are just livestock! Why the hell are we sending people guarding horses?"
"Muggles are angry. These creatures are worth fortunes to them. Some muggles spend entire life times breeding them." The director examined him over the rim of his glasses, still cool as if Sirius had merely commented on the weather. Sirius clenched his jaw. "And horses may be dying now, but people may soon follow. Werewolves are known for…"
"These are not werewolf killings!" A thin seam of patience snapped somewhere in his mind, and Sirius screamed out that statement at the aging man's face. He caught himself before he leaped out of his chair. "These are just wolves. The description matches…"
"There are no wolves in Britain," the man cut him off with a tone of impatience. "Whatever attacked them was magical, Black. Those muggles reported very clearly that those wolves displayed a communication method more precise than any previously documented wolf pack. And," the graying man let his sentence hang for a dramatic moment, a small smirk spreading across his aged face. "one of them stated very clearly that he sighed one of their wolves on two feet."
"In broad daylight?" Sirius spat out the question in a deadened monotone. "That possibility is even…"
The director simply narrowed his eyes more, tapping his fingers together as if examining a particularly interesting arithmetic problem. "I understand that you have a certain biased regard towards this subject…"
Sirius' fist crashed against his desk a second time. "I'm biased?! You…!"
"… and I would understand if you choose to not participate in this particular mission," the director ploughed bravely on, unfazed. "We only considered you because of your experience with these sort of beasts. We…"
Damn him if he thought he would back out. Sirius glared at the miniature man and clenched his hands into fists. Werewolves were scapegoats, weren't they? Even if it had been obvious these killings took place during they day, they pinned their suspicions on dark creatures. Damn him if he thought Sirius would let Remus be treated this way.
"I'll apparate north this afternoon," Sirius bit out shortly.
*
Oops, sorry about the previous uploading. I accidently left out the last scene. It was rather short, and I think I overlooked it. Ack... I'm so sorry!
Originally, this ended at a cliffy, but since it's going on hiatus, that would be too cruel, so the whole next page got chopped. But taking off that page left this chapter a bit disjointed and a bit plotless. But anything's better than a cliffie right before hiatus. *sigh*
I know, a lot of these situations are not even remotely possible in real life. A child cannot survive with a pack of wolves, not with their physical built and diet. Harry would probably either freeze to death, starve to death, or... umm... die in a lot of different ways. But I guess it's sort of my attempt to get away from PoM's realism to try something new.
Harry does believe he is a wolf, but he's still very young. It's pretty obvious he wouldn't be that oblivious if he was any older, but Harry at this moment is only five years old, and five year olds pretty much believe anything a parent tells them. His 'father' is a bit odd, I accidently designed him after Snape, and I swear, it wasn't intentional. The wolf is cynical, bitter, not all that kind but he does these kind things which don't go along to the thoughts he thinks. He thinks that Harry is ugly and hairless, but he takes extra precautions to keep him safe. Almost like Snape in a way during Harry's first year, when he insults Harry but tries to protect him behind his back.
Ack! Looks like everyone wants more CoS and PoM. Umm... everything including CoS is on hiatus at the moment, but my muse is going off on a wild tangent. I'm going to focus on PoM for now, since the revisions are practically rewriting the whole story with new scenes over again. It actually takes longer, for some odd reason, because I have to tie some future refences into the present one. Umm... I'm sort of assuming that you've read those other fics if you're reading December. Yell at me very loudly and pound me with a stick if I'm wrong. Not on my head though! My brain cells are endangered...
Crud, why is it that these authors notes are getting shorter and shorter? Thank you for all your comments, I didn't expect many reviews for the first chapter but I was still surprised. Thank you everyone for reading my fics, its always you guys who keep my muse up and going! Many, many thank yous and have a great Thanksgiving next week!
a/n This story is dedicated to Moonlight, whose story Unicorn Child was the fuel for this idea! Alternative Universe.
December
By neutral
Chapter two - a wolf and a boy
*November 21st, four years later*
The gentle scraping of thirty quills against parchment pinched his stomach and set his nerves against ice.
Remus Lupin examined the reflection of his glass on the plane of the window, listlessly watching the dancing of long white feathers, thick chocolate feathers, even a few stiff sugar quills flick across paper. The sky was already darkening in the afternoon sky, sinking across the barren Hogwarts grounds leaving a thick mire of silence.
Winter was early this year. Remus ran his fingers across the plane of the window, tracing a thin crack that marred its surface; the icy sheet fogged under his hand.
A soft whistle vibrated from his wrist, the shrill ring of his alarm that was carefully adjusted for inhuman ears. Remus left his place by the windows and padded soundlessly to the front of the classroom.
"Pass in your tests, please." A collective groan from the students, and Remus felt slightly guilty at grinning in amusement. He tapped the edge of the desk. "Now, please."
Students made their way to the front of the class, their grim and disgruntled faces drifting past. Heavy feet shuffled around him as sheets of parchment was paid in a haphazard pile one by one. Remus humored them by smiling as he carefully gathered the tests into a thick pile.
"I'm sure you all did fine," Remus assured them.
The depression in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom thickened perceptibly by inches. His smile must have been aggravating to those sleep deprived students, and he quickly sombered. The first day of midterms never presented any happy faces on his pupils, with the two week reprieve lingering just out of reach and another five exams looming ahead. Remus sighed inwardly, recalling a time when he grimaced just like the rest of them, lugging behind him his thick book bag beside his friends. Now, those memories seemed like some distant dreams, too flimsy and seamless to real.
"Grades will be posted Friday morning," Remus added to the stream of departing students. "Any questions or concerns, please contact me in my office personally. I wish you all a good luck for your potions exam."
More groans, although they sounded suspiciously like wails to his ears.
The door slid quietly shut behind the last departing student, and Remus crumpled into his chair with a sigh that seemed to drain his lungs out of his last breath of air. The second exam into the day, and he already felt as if he had been steamrolled against muggle pavement. Remus eyed the two stacks of parchment, taller than his chipped mug, and fought the urge to groan aloud.
Before Friday? Why had he promised them that? With a rueful sigh, Remus slowly spread the bleeding sheets of yellowing paper across his desk and squinted at the varying degrees of illegibility. Some of these students had handwriting worse than Sirius' during his first year.
Sirius… he would laugh if he saw him now. He'd slap him on the back and…
Remus' train of thought broke abruptly as he remembered the thin envelop sitting by his bedside. Where was Sirius? Spain? Romania?
Remus nervously tapped his fingers against his desk and bit his lip habitually in thought. The last post he received from Sirius was three days ago, and he had been in northern Scotland, not far from Hogwarts and the flat they shared in Hogsmead during holidays. But aurors could be relocated every other day with just a few hours notice. Despite Voldemort's demise four years ago, dark arts activities were still prevalent throughout Europe. Three years ago, Sirius would send him a call through floo to alert him, but that habit had eroded through the years. Remus had classes to teach five days out of the week, Sirius had missions to attend to sometimes for days on end. With their erratic schedules, neither could keep up with each other's lives.
Once in a while, in between assignments, Sirius would drop in and crash, transfiguring his divan into a large four poster and slugging in Remus' dorm for days. During those times, Remus could almost imagine Sirius as the bright eyed boy he knew years ago. But that never lasted.
After Lily and James' death and Peter's disappearance, Sirius vacillated between drowning himself in work and aimlessly hunting for revenge. Peter, as always, was elusive, but Sirius was determined. A few times, Remus had visited him in the middle of an assignment to find his remaining friend strung taunt, face unshaven, eyes bloodshot, driven to the edges of endurance. By the week, he bounced back as if he had done nothing more than emerge from a cold shower after two days of sleep and seventeen pieces of toast. But even then, the word 'Wormtail' hung at the tip of his tongue and he would curse him in every other sentence.
But that was the way Sirius lived.
When Sirius emerged from Dumbledore's office that Halloween, after being forcibly dragged, his mind had been focused solely on revenge. That was what he hunted for; even after four years, he did not show any signs of relenting.
Sirius had changed, far more than Remus was willing to admit. Because every time he compared Sirius to the carefree boy he remembered, and then himself to his past, Remus would realize just how much he didn't change. Just how much he was still like that quiet, withdrawn, soft spoken boy who followed the tides along with his friends, with his family, without creating any for himself.
Perhaps that was why he couldn't seem to understand Sirius. He didn't care for the past; he cared about living.
And strangely, that thought always left a bitter pang of guilt in the back of his throat. It was James and Lily who died, but all he could do was sit and mourn. Why couldn't he show more? But it had been so difficult. With the James and Lily he knew being twisted into two legendary heroes elevated to the point of sacredness, he couldn't seem to relate them as once being two very normal people who had been his closest friends.
Now, they were renown heroes, credited as martyrs who brought down Voldemort at the cost of their own lives. How they managed was a mystery, but their names were traced with gold letterings in every history book. Their son, Harry, was forgotten, noted simply as the child who had disappeared in the mound of ash which remained of their home. His body, they claimed, had desecrated beyond any point of identification.
Remus forgot him sometimes too, when he visited James and Lily's graves with Sirius. Standing by the stones, he would lay flowers only to find he had neglected the child's. The boy had been so young when he died, he faded in Remus' memories beside James and Lily's. What had been the color of his eyes? What had been his first word? Remus couldn't remember, but neither could Sirius. They were just like those bland history books, Remus realized, idealizing James and Lily but burying their son behind sheets of parchment.
But he had barely known the child. James and Lily had been hiding, he himself had grown distant. He had perhaps only seen the boy four times after his birth, and even then, those visits were strained, but…
Harry had been too young to die. An infant, barely over a year old, scorched to death in flames. It made his mouth dry just trying to imagine, the small child's eyes wide in fright and pain, his pain filled wails carrying through the night air.
It was a terrible death for someone so young.
Gray eyes watched dawn. Watched the peeling wooden walls. Watched the dozing animals laying against the straw. Watched the cracked planes of glass that hung on the empty windows. Then turned to watch the peach colored cub curled with its slender arms around his gangly legs and its strange, small face buried in its distorted paws. Lowering his head, the wolf pressed its muzzle against the cub's unruly mop of fur, the only patch of fur on its small body, and breathed softly. The cub made a small sound in the back of its throat, too low to sound wolflike, and squirmed away. Its face peaked through his arms, revealing a small snout too short, eyes too oval, and ears too small to be like his father.
An ugly, hairless cub.
The wolf had to hide his cub into the twolegs territory when it became too cold, just to keep it from fading away. The rest of his sons and daughters sprouted hair and grew warm, but this thing remained as naked as the day he dug it bleeding and burned from rubble. It would never have fur like the rest of his pack. When the rains came and ice caked the earth, it would shiver, turn blue, and wail silently as he fell and bled on the cold ground. The wolf had given up making it endure.
Pitiful thing.
The wolf rested his head on the cub's smooth back lightly. The thing was more wearisome than females. He had spent more hours with this cub than his true children just to ensure its survival. He had to constantly wander into the twolegs territories and drag their sheets off clotheslines, to keep his cub from dying from the winter chill. He had to run behind the pack and, sometimes, drag the thing on his back to compensate for its jerky gait. Troublesome thing.
But it was still his cub.
The wolf lightly nipped at its small ear, tugging gently when it was still unresponsive. It protested with a small, irritated growl, but the wolf nudged it again. They had to leave before the rest of them arrived. It wasn't safe to stay.
The cub moaned in protest, turning away still.
The wolf barked out an angry snarl. He could feel the cub jerk away at the tone. The thing scrambled unsteadily to its paws, and watched him meekly with its head bowed. The wraps of torn fabric stolen from the twolegs hung loosely about its small frame, longer and thinner than the rest of the pack. The only fur it hand was a wild and tangled mop on its head that refused to lie flat for insulation. It looked white to the wolf's colorblind eyes, except for the grayer patches of burn scars on its back, but he had never seen twolegs close enough to determine if his cub was normal.
Very odd, it was.
Catching the collar of its dirt caked, tattered fur -- cloth really, but it served as fur -- the wolf led it quickly out of the wooden barn that reeked of corrupted animals. A place for the twolegs to place their tamed pets, the wolf noted in distaste. They still stupidly slept as he dragged his cub out of the warm enclosure and into the wind-whipped grounds.
His cub despised the winter months.
The thing whimpered as its paws sank into the snow. It shook and its teeth rattled. The wolf nudged its back to force it further, urging it to keep moving for warmth. But the thing only whimpered more and sank to four paws on the white grass.
Move! the wolf barked out.
The thin cub clambered up and hurried forward on unsteady feet. They tread silently into the thicket of bare trees, the cub breathing heavily and running to keep up with his walking pace. The wolf sniffed the air and let out a shrill bark as the rest of his pack filtered through the woods around them.
It was time.
Faster! His father snarled out, but the boy was already ripping through the spidery brush as fast as he could without his legs crumbling beneath him.
The boy nimbly leaped over a fallen tree with practiced grace, feet pounding into the soft snow that caked the thicket floors. The branches were razor sharp as they racked past him, but he was used to that now. The snow was no longer cold enough to eat into his flesh; flying between the trees alongside his father, he could barely feel the ground beneath his feet.
He was as fast as them! Even as a cripple on two paws instead of four, he could be as fast as his family.
But the rest of the pack was tearing ahead. His father was slowing his pace to match his. Grinding his teeth in humiliation, the boy fought to drive himself faster, barely dodging the scattered branches that laid in his path.
Stay behind, came the quiet command. With barely a glance over his shoulder, his father leaped ahead, bounding with strides that the boy would fall into a heap on the ground trying to match, and took his place at the lead.
The boy made a strangled growl of frustration.
His legs were already weakening, his feet bruised and sore. Every gasp sent a sharp pang of icy pain through his sides, and his lungs were burning from the cold air. But he forced himself to run faster, faster, just like his father and just like his brothers and his sisters, who streaked ahead of him like gray blurs of color, faster so he could run along side them as an equal, faster so he could be like his brother who was younger but stronger.
His foot snagged a crevasse on the ground, and the entire sky tilted at an odd angle. The boy choked back a strangled gasp of pain as he collided hard against the moist ground.
The sound of a dozen paws striking the snow faded away in the distance.
Coughing and gasping for air, the boy slowly eased himself to his knees, blinking back the sting of tears that burst in his eyes from the sudden stab of pain.
Why couldn't he be as fast as them? It didn't matter if he was a cripple with two feet, he should still be as fast as them. But when he tried to leap like his brothers did, he simply fell. When they sniffed the grounds for a prey's scent, he could only watch and breath wisps of bland air. When they perked up their ears, he could do nothing but shuffle his feet in irritation. Father said that he had been burned when he was very young, and that was why he wasn't like the rest. But it shouldn't matter he had no fur, no ears, small eyes, and long limbs, he was still a wolf!
He angrily bared his teeth and kicked at a pile of snow.
That burn… that burn left on his back because of those twolegs! They were the ones who burned him, Father had said. They were the reason why he couldn't be like the rest. He would hunt one if he ever saw one, even if Father insisted that they tasted terrible. What did they look like? It was a pity he had never seen one. Father always tried to hide him when they were nearby, growling under his breath that they were dangerous, evil, vile creatures who deserved to be killed.
Damned twolegs, cursing him to walk like them…
The boy followed the imprints on the snow, padding lightly after the pack. They were heading two a clearing, one of their places that they created to raise their dumb animals. The boy picked up his gait in excited anticipation. Perhaps he'd see a twoleg today, and perhaps, Father would let him hunt today, even if those things did taste terrible. The boy's hand instinctively sought the sharpened blade that he had dug up in the soil months ago, the blade that he had substituted for his clawless hands. How fast did twolegs run?
Heaving himself over the trunk of a fallen tree, the boy leaped nimbly on his surface and, just for amusement, skipped lightly across its warm bark. His father didn't like him standing so tall, but he liked jumping and climbing. He threw his head back, letting his face soak in the sun and raking his thick, matted hair from his forehead. The sun was hot.
So would the blood be, when his father went for the kill. The animal would foam at the mouth and shriek out in pain when the wolves sank its teeth in its skin. Its gait would titter and its body would sway, before it collapsed like a limp sack of boneless meat against the ground. The boy bit the inside of his cheek to contain his excitement.
Blood was sweet, warm, bitter all at once. Like a mouthful of ripe red berries that dissolved on his tongue.
Smiling eagerly, he leaped off the fallen tree and dashed across the grounds after the wolves.
"I'm telling you, these attacks are not from werewolves!" Sirius slammed his fist against the desk hard, ignoring the clink of china that reverberated against the force. A cup tilted and warm tea pooled around his hands.
The director of the Magical Creatures Department leaned back idly in his chair, lips pinched delicately in thoughtful contemplation. Sirius gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to grab the irritatingly composed man by the front of his robes and yelling.
"These killings are not…" Sirius gestured aimlessly at the frozen muggle photographs of shredded corpses in an effort to curb his frustration. "These are just livestock! Why the hell are we sending people guarding horses?"
"Muggles are angry. These creatures are worth fortunes to them. Some muggles spend entire life times breeding them." The director examined him over the rim of his glasses, still cool as if Sirius had merely commented on the weather. Sirius clenched his jaw. "And horses may be dying now, but people may soon follow. Werewolves are known for…"
"These are not werewolf killings!" A thin seam of patience snapped somewhere in his mind, and Sirius screamed out that statement at the aging man's face. He caught himself before he leaped out of his chair. "These are just wolves. The description matches…"
"There are no wolves in Britain," the man cut him off with a tone of impatience. "Whatever attacked them was magical, Black. Those muggles reported very clearly that those wolves displayed a communication method more precise than any previously documented wolf pack. And," the graying man let his sentence hang for a dramatic moment, a small smirk spreading across his aged face. "one of them stated very clearly that he sighed one of their wolves on two feet."
"In broad daylight?" Sirius spat out the question in a deadened monotone. "That possibility is even…"
The director simply narrowed his eyes more, tapping his fingers together as if examining a particularly interesting arithmetic problem. "I understand that you have a certain biased regard towards this subject…"
Sirius' fist crashed against his desk a second time. "I'm biased?! You…!"
"… and I would understand if you choose to not participate in this particular mission," the director ploughed bravely on, unfazed. "We only considered you because of your experience with these sort of beasts. We…"
Damn him if he thought he would back out. Sirius glared at the miniature man and clenched his hands into fists. Werewolves were scapegoats, weren't they? Even if it had been obvious these killings took place during they day, they pinned their suspicions on dark creatures. Damn him if he thought Sirius would let Remus be treated this way.
"I'll apparate north this afternoon," Sirius bit out shortly.
*
Oops, sorry about the previous uploading. I accidently left out the last scene. It was rather short, and I think I overlooked it. Ack... I'm so sorry!
Originally, this ended at a cliffy, but since it's going on hiatus, that would be too cruel, so the whole next page got chopped. But taking off that page left this chapter a bit disjointed and a bit plotless. But anything's better than a cliffie right before hiatus. *sigh*
I know, a lot of these situations are not even remotely possible in real life. A child cannot survive with a pack of wolves, not with their physical built and diet. Harry would probably either freeze to death, starve to death, or... umm... die in a lot of different ways. But I guess it's sort of my attempt to get away from PoM's realism to try something new.
Harry does believe he is a wolf, but he's still very young. It's pretty obvious he wouldn't be that oblivious if he was any older, but Harry at this moment is only five years old, and five year olds pretty much believe anything a parent tells them. His 'father' is a bit odd, I accidently designed him after Snape, and I swear, it wasn't intentional. The wolf is cynical, bitter, not all that kind but he does these kind things which don't go along to the thoughts he thinks. He thinks that Harry is ugly and hairless, but he takes extra precautions to keep him safe. Almost like Snape in a way during Harry's first year, when he insults Harry but tries to protect him behind his back.
Ack! Looks like everyone wants more CoS and PoM. Umm... everything including CoS is on hiatus at the moment, but my muse is going off on a wild tangent. I'm going to focus on PoM for now, since the revisions are practically rewriting the whole story with new scenes over again. It actually takes longer, for some odd reason, because I have to tie some future refences into the present one. Umm... I'm sort of assuming that you've read those other fics if you're reading December. Yell at me very loudly and pound me with a stick if I'm wrong. Not on my head though! My brain cells are endangered...
Crud, why is it that these authors notes are getting shorter and shorter? Thank you for all your comments, I didn't expect many reviews for the first chapter but I was still surprised. Thank you everyone for reading my fics, its always you guys who keep my muse up and going! Many, many thank yous and have a great Thanksgiving next week!