A/N: Thanks ever so much to HPFanFicLuvr, who is my beta for this story too, and to my reviewers:
LythTaeraneth: Gone then… Sirius is gone.
She sat in her small attic room crouched against the wall. She didn't move, she just stared at a point on the wall and listened. If she concentrated she could hear hat they were saying on the ground floor.
"I'm worried about the girl," she heard her mother say. The girl. It was as if she was an imamate object. She drew a breath. Of course, she couldn't have expected them to accept her. She was a freak.
"It's been over a year, and she hasn't said a single word."
She smiled wryly. It worried them. Why should it? They didn't care about her, they had shown it quite plainly. All the bother she had caused, why should they care? It was the eighth time she broke loose from the cellar in which they held her. She knew she was bad. She was evil. All werewolves were. She put her hands to her ears. She didn't want to hear any more.
"Anastasia!" her mother called up the stairs. She pressed her hands tighter. She didn't want to go to school. She didn't want to face the others again. Couldn't she fake illness? Her mother would never know. A lump formed in her throat. If only she were normal! She could hear her mother coming up the stairs.
"Anastasia," her mother said curtly. "Go downstairs."
She grabbed her by the arm and walked down with her.
When they came into the kitchen, her father simply raised an eyebrow and continued reading. Her mother sat her down on a bench.
"Fix yourself some breakfast."
Anastasia stared at the table. She filled a bowl of cereal and picked up a spoon. It burned her hand, and she dropped it quickly. Why did they have to give her silver cutlery all the time? She looked at her hand. It was scorched.
"What's the matter," asked her mother curtly.
Wordlessly, Anastasia pointed at the silver spoon.
"I won't spoon feed you, you know," said her mother. "Eat it yourself."
Her mother knew quite well that Anastasia reacted badly to silver, but she didn't care.
Anastasia picked up the spoon and tried to ignore the burning feeling. It was as if her mother had asked her to hold a piece of burning coal in her hands.
She finished the meal quickly.
Padfoot curled up to sleep. He remembered the wolf-child from yesterday. She had been scared, he knew that much. But not of him, of herself. Instinct told him that she thirsted for love, but felt she didn't deserve it. He suspected that her parents had abandoned her when she received the curse of lycanthropy, in one way or another. He stood up. Sleep could wait. There was a werewolf that needed love and protection, and he was going to give it to her.
Elfrida Bullstone and May Rogers were at it agaiun.
"Where were you yesterday, freak?" Elfrida asked spitefully. "Skipping classes?"
"No, you don't have anyone to skip classes with," continued May. "Nobody likes someone who doesn't talk."
Anastasia kept her eyes firmly on the ground. If she didn't do anything, they'd go away in a bit, she told herself. All around her children were playing with their friends. They had never cared about her.
May and Elfrida continued jeering, as she kept her eyes firmly on the ground.
The trail of wolf-child grew stronger as he drew closer to the town. Padfoot could barely hide his excitement. He knew that the wolf-child was important, and it was important that he found her. Looking for her felt right.
The scent tickled his nose. She had been here not long before. Perhaps merely an hour or so. He looked up to see where he was. A playground. 'How stupid of me' he thought. 'I should have realized that cubs go to school.' The playground was deserted. The cubs were probably having lessons. He thought fondly at his own schooldays. He hadn't always been fond of his teachers, but they were the ones who had prepared him for his life. He had not been very fond of his family.
A bell sounded and soon the school ground was swamped with little cubs. So many scents! It took a while before he noticed the distinct sense of wolf-child. Finding the owner of the scent was an entirely different matter. A young boy stooped to pet him.
"Here boy," he said in a gentle tone. "Aren't you the cutest?"
Padfoot's jaw dropped before he closed it indignantly. 'Cute'? He was old enough to be the boy's grandfather! The boy ruffled his fur. Padfoot was getting sidetracked. He tried to follow the trail, but all the other scents interrupted him. He gathered all his senses and concentrated his hardest. He would find the child. He had to.
It was by coincidence Anastasia stumbled across the dog. She hadn't meant to. She had been trying to hide from Elfrida and May. They weren't technically allowed behind the school, and most children avoided it, since it was hard to hear the bell there. That was one advantage of being a werewolf. He heightened senses – although not as sharp as when she was in wolf form – allowed her to hear quite a lot she shouldn't. She had been quite surprised when she heard – no, heard wasn't the right word, sensed – a voice behind here.
You were quite hard to find, wolf-child, the voice said. Anastasia stiffened. Who knew her for the freak she was? Could all animals sense it? She turned around to face the dog from yesterday's transformation.
Hello, he greeted her.
She nodded to him and sat down. He would explain why he had come if he wanted to. One thing Anastasia hated was being pressed for information. She wondered stilly what she would have done if she hadn't been blessed with the patience of a saint. She would have had quite some trouble, relaying her message without words.
He however, waited for her to make a move. He was unnerved by the cub's stillness. A young child should not have such serenity. Nor should it have such eyes. But he supposed it was her condition. Turning into a wolf each month had not been easy on his childhood friend, and nor would it be easy on the girl sitting in front of him. He wondered when she had received the curse. Perhaps she was the child of another werewolf, and had received the condition at birth. Otherwise she was just beginning to reach the point where she was beginning to understand the implications her lycanthropy would hold for later life. She was waiting for him to take the first step.
You are silent, wolf-child, he stated. She fixed those unnerving eyes on him. Too silent, he continued. He had expected her to reply out loud. He had expected her to laugh, like any normal cub would. The wolf-child, however, was no normal cub.
Indeed? She sent. There was no sarcasm in her voice, just plain curiosity. He hadn't even known wolf-humans could send in their human state.
Yes, he replied. Cubs are not supposed to be silent.
Her deep blue eyes did not leave his face, as she watched him silently. He felt as if she was searching every single corner of his soul. Her eyes made it seem like she could see all of his secrets.
The sound of a bell was heard. She stood up and looked away.
I must go. Will you wait for me here? It was formulated as a question, but really, it was an order. The thought of disobeying her was a distant to Padfoot as betraying his best friend was. He snorted – if it could be called a snort – a little at that. Everybody had believed he had betrayed his best friend. It was quite ironic, the way destiny worked against you sometimes.
Keeping her mind on lessons was harder than Anastasia thought it would be. She kept thinking of the dog. It occurred to her that she ought to find out his name. Calling him 'dog' didn't exactly seem right. It was like her mother and father calling her 'her' or 'girl'. It was months since she last heard someone other than Miss Cotton – her teacher – call her by her first name. Often Anastasia wondered if she inherited her patience from Miss Cotton. 'It certainly wasn't from my mother, not from my father. And Miss Cotton is one of the most patient people I know. She must be – dealing with me.' Anastasia knew what a nuisance she was. She knew how she annoyed people, not answering them. Her father called it 'obstinacy', but it wasn't. She had tried to speak, honestly, but she couldn't. Not since that night. The night she had met a wolf in the forest. How was she to know that it was no ordinary wolf? She had backed away from it – slowly so as not to scare it. She had tried to be quiet as a mouse. It would have worked, if it had been a real wolf. But no, it just had to be a werewolf. Her mother and father had been worried. They had seen a doctor with her. He had said it was shock. Nothing could be done. Of course, when her father and mother found out her other secret, they didn't bother about it any more. It would have been humorous, if it hadn't been so serious, her father's reaction. Anastasia had learnt from an early age that her father despised any sort of 'freakiness'. When her mother had died her favourite dress grey in the wash, Anastasia had been broken-hearted. There was something about the colour grey she just despised. The next day, it was returned to its ordinary yellow state. Her father had been furious. He'd ripped the dress to pieces, whilst screaming how she had done it.
Anastasia was pulled out of her reverie by Miss Cotton calling her. She snapped to attention.
"Were you listening?" asked the teacher. Anastasia shook her head. She knew Miss Cotton wouldn't be angry. Perhaps a bit tired – Anastasia had dozed off like that endless times – and gently reprimand Anastasia, but she wouldn't be angry. Miss Cotton was the only person who seemed understand that she couldn't speak, but wanted to.
His name was Padfoot, he told her. She gave him hers, but so far he had not used it. He called her Little One, or wolf-child, or cub. Well, it was better than 'girl'. And it was certainly better than 'freak'. They sent and intercepted each other all the way home to her semi-detached house. The entire house gave out an air of neatness. It towered proudly among the orderly flowerbeds.
My mother and father won't be pleased to see you, she told Padfoot as she swung the well-oiled gate open. They don't like dogs.
Please, replied the dog. I am no trouble. You can tell your parents that I am the model pet.
She sighed. I can't, she sent. Still he persisted. She sighed as she opened the door, barely glancing at the sign that proclaimed that here lived Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Dursley.