I was seven or eight when I first met another one of my kind. I was walking through the streets in the village that we lived in with my mother, my hand in hers. We were going to get some vegetables for that night's supper and she had gone into the shop and I had waited outside, humming slightly as I walked around the outside of the shop. There was a dog there, I remember that well; a small grey, black and white mutt, lying outside another shop with his head between his paws. It was a nice village, even though we hadn't stayed there for a very long time before moving to a bigger part in Sheffield.
I had just knelt down and was stroking the puppy, and I remember murmuring softly to it as it had jumped a little at my sudden appearance when a very strong smell reached my nose. It wasn't necessarily a bad smell, but nor was it a very good one either. It smelt very strongly of dust and dry, dead leaves and hovered in the air a bit. It was one of those smells that are all around you and smell of you but you are used to it, and when you meet someone else with the same sort of smell around them you're surprised. I had looked up suddenly, staring around, trying to find the source of this sudden smell.
There was a man a few metres away from me, frowning deeply. He had coarse black hair that was flecked slightly with grey, making him look as if he had bad dandruff. He wore Muggle clothes and had very scruffy brown shoes that were polished a lot. I remember looking at his shoes before looking up and concluding that he was the source of the smell. He looked down at me and our eyes met. His were flecked with concern and pity and he took a step towards me. I stood up and then stumbled over, tripping over the dog's lead. The dog had jumped up, barking wildly at the sudden tug at its neck and growled and then whined, licking at my ankles.
My hands and knees were grazed though I remember that the pain was momentarily numb. The man came over to me and held out a hand which I had grabbed after a second's hesitation. His calloused thumb ran over a small scar across the back of my hand before he let go.
I still hadn't said anything by then, and neither had he. We had just stood there looking blankly at each other for a while. It must have been an odd sight. I was quite short as a child and sprouted up at about the age of ten and he was a very tall man. We had just stood there staring until my mother came out of the shop.
She had glanced briefly at the man and then took my hand. Then she had started talking to him, but he hadn't said anything or explained anything about what had just gone on. It was my first encounter with another one of my kind and he seemed to think it would be better to leave my mother out of it; so did I. She asked him if he had anything to do later on and if he would like to have dinner around at our house. The man had smiled and shook his head, saying he was just passing through.
When we were about to leave the man had kneeled down so he was at my level. I remember the feeling when he gripped my hand again, looking at the scrape on it from the gravel on the ground. But I knew when he spoke he didn't mean the blatantly obvious.
"You'll watch out for yourself next time, hey buddy?" he had said softly, when his fingers traced the thin scar on the back of my hand again. "Them dogs may give you a hard time in future. You'll be strong for me, won't you, hey?" My mother, completely baffled at this, had just stared. But I had smiled and nodded. I remember reaching out and touching a scar on his forearm softly and saying, "Take care of yourself, as well." He had smiled warmly and stood up, tipping his hat slightly before walking off.
I don't know what, but something had gone on that day, something significant. My mother asked me about it when we had walked home and I had just shrugged and asked her what veggies were for dinner.
Now, as I look up at Dumbledore at the Order of the Phoenix meeting, my hand clenches on the table. He talks about a werewolf who has gone missing from the lower area in Exeter. He gives photos around for us to look at and tells us it's just for us to keep a look out in case we see him but we shouldn't go worrying about it. He predicts that the man is already dead. Dumbledore's eyes flicker on me for a second before going on to say that he thinks the man refused to join Greyback which is why he was killed.
My fists clench tighter on the table, the thin white scar standing out ever more slightly on the back of my hand as I look down at the picture of a weary looking man with kind, concerned eyes and coarse black hair.
A/N no angst. Well, not much. )
Disclaimer: JKR owns Harry Potter & co.