Chapter Three
"The wolf is kept fed by its feet." - Russian Proverb.
Harry had once heard, from someone and somewhere unimportant, that it was during times like these that your life was meant to flash before your eyes with all of the subtlety of a steam engine. Well, that and something odd about a bright light and tunnels, and so the young boy currently shrinking in what seemed to be slow motion closer to the ground had certain expectations about the moment of his death. He expected violins and harps. He expected inane little flashes of memory such as the time when Uncle Vernon had sent him to his cupboard with no supper because he'd been peering unblinkingly into the glare of a flashlight and searching its illuminated depths for an aforementioned tunnel and shaking it none too gently when he found no trace of anything of the like. He had expected his mother, halo and all, reclining back in his father's arms as an ethereal wind blew through their hair and they welcomed him home.
Somehow he hadn't expected his last earthly thought to be a numb 'oh no ...' and he hadn't been expecting that the last sound he would ever make would be nothing more than a meek squeak stuck low in his throat, either. Hadn't ever considered it, really.
But that was what lingered in Harry's mind and what tried its best to claw its way back down past his voice box as he shrank back away from the charging columns of spiders, eyes the size of saucers and nails digging into the compact dirt.
All around him pinchers clacked and rivers of legs thudded on the quaking ground, and still Harry stood there as they advanced with incredible speed, all but literally petrified as he faced down the racing quilt of spiders swarming across felled logs and shallow ditches in their bid to rend him limb from limb. One of the spiders reared up and roared a strange, gurgling, hungry hiss then, and with a strangled yelp, Harry's muscles, quivering with harnessed adrenaline, finally reacted and he zipped forwards. But the spiders were already upon him.
A sharp pincher hit the ground inches to the right of Harry's abdomen and kept going. The spider yanked its limb free, leaving behind a deep crater in the earth before it readjusted its aim and struck again. With a frantic, panicked yip, Harry darted to the side and under it's legs, weaving in and out of the hairy structures. As Harry skidded out the other side of the acromantula, he was met by eight shiny, unblinking eyes and, unable to calm himself enough to stop and consider the best way out, he growled rather pathetically and launched himself at the beast. His nails tore through the spider's uppermost eyes, gaining a grip as the eyes burst with a sickening popping sound and the spider's wirey fur became slick with fluid. Harry's hindlegs scrambled to find a purchase even as the wounded creature hissed and floundered to the ground, flinging Harry into the air and away from the main cortex of acromantulas.
He landed in a heap just before a felled tree trunk, rotted away with mold and damp. For a moment Harry just lay there, stunned by the impact, but he quickly shook his head to clear it, and then pulled himself up and over the small trunk with what little upperarm strength the malnourished seven year old had. His tail had just barely cleared the log when the spiders were on him again.
An relatively small acromantula launched itself over the log, landed over Harry and slammed it's pinchers down towards him hungrily. The wolf pup tried to turn his yelp into a snarl, but a pincher found its mark and skewered his right flank. He yowled. Dark midnight fur matted with the unmistakable coppery scent of blood, and Harry writhed in pain, an incisor in his lower jaw tearing through the thin sheets of skin and meat in his upper lip as he flung his head back in the dirt, still pinned on his side, and forced an agonised howl up past the straight line of his throat and jaw. The spider moved, it's pincher tearing through Harry's young flesh, and his howl was cut short with a ragged gasp ... but a harsh, reverberating cry continued to trumpet through the forest, audibly more impressive than the pained sound that had ripped past Harry's snout. The noise sent a stab of unexplainable fear through Harry's gut and he snarled a warning, but wholy uneffective, threat at the acromantula. Get off me. Now.
The pincher was wrenched from Harry's flank, and the acromantula skittered backwards, clicking and slurping a set pattern of organised sounds and constonants. Harry slunk a foot away from the spider upon first opportunity, before his hindquarters gave out beneath him and he hit the dirt, just watching the spiders retreat in a flurry of nervous energy. He blinked, eyes saucer-wide and mouth slightly parted. What ... ? Surely he hadn't been the reason for their hasty retreat ...
He didn't have to wait long for his answer, as the deep, quavering sound from earlier returned, louder than before. Closer.
A ground-shaking thunder echoed around the clearing that the acromantulas were fleeing from, the steady dur-dum dur-dum of falling hooves sending shockwaves through Harry's bones. Scared and favouring his right hindleg, Harry skirted the distance into a small hole rotted out of the trunk of the felled tree beside him, and pressed himself against the molding bark. It stunk of dirt and a heavy, wet scent that made the young wolf cub want to gag and something thick and sticky was matting his already blood-soaked fur to his skin, but the loud sounds of battle and pain and victory outside kept him pinned in place. As well as that Godawful noise that pierced through the forest with every breath.
Not even the dying and wounded shrieks of the giant spiders could drown out that long, grating sound and Harry pressed harder against the inside of the tree, squeaking as thick sap seeped into his open wound. The sounds of battle seemed to continue for forever and a day, thundering in Harry's ears as the scent of spilled blood reached his nose. His stomach rumbled and Harry's ethereal green eyes widened a fraction of an inch in horror at the urgings pounding through his head. God, was he hungry ... and suddenly Harry was all too aware of the fact that one of arachnids that had been all too determined to make him their dinner had stolen his rabbit. Motivated by his stomach, Harry crept uncertainly to the gaping maw of the hole he had claimed as his hiding place and hesitantly poked his nose out.
The battle that erupted around him was all but over: he watched as the last acromantula skittered away into the gloomy underbush and disappeared from view. The only living things left in the clearing, beyond the odd plant now trampled and flattened and dying, were a relatively small group of equine beings, all with the body of a horse - hooves and tail and all - and with the torsos of men, all but rippling with lean muscles and glowing with the heat of conflict. Most of the horse-men carried blood-coated spears or held bows, a pouch filled with arrows slung across their shoulders. But one held a strangely shaped object up to his lips, the horrid sound richoting around him as he blew into the battle horn a gleeful victory cry. 1
Eventually the cry tapered off, and Harry snorted a sigh of relief out through his nose. The clipped conversation that had been bouncing back and forth between horse-men was cut short, and heads swivelled in his direction, though only one locked directly onto Harry: the horse-man holding the battle horn. Startled, Harry scrambled backwards, but his injured leg gave out beneath him and he ended up sprawled in the mouth of his hiding place.
To his surprise, his pain-induced clumsiness was met by a dry chuckle rather than swift retribution, and Harry could hear the dull sounds of hooves approaching him, scuffing the dirt as they stopped inches from his nose. The small wave of dusty earth they sent up tickled Harry's nostrils and he sneezed, before blinking up at the large horse-man, trembling in place. The horse-man, black as night in both skin and hair, crouched before him, forelegs buckling until he was kneeling and then hindlegs folding carefully beneath him until his horse-like body was lying before the tiny wolf.
"Worry not, little wolf cub." The voice was bland and detached, almost dreamy, but Harry calmed slightly, resisting the urge to shrink back when the horse-man reached out to scoop his small body into his arms. He was torn. On the one hand, human consciousness screamed at Harry to scratch and bite and claw his way past the large being but his wolven instincts kept him calm and in place, something deep and innate within him assuring himself that he could trust this strange man. He curled into a tighter ball, but let the horse-man hold him as he pulled his hooves beneath him and stood again, turning to face his battle companions.
"Leave the mutt be, Ajax." One of them said, and a blonde palamino stepped forward, his hair and face stained with spider blood. He brandished a spear-tipped staff in Harry's direction and glared down at the werewolf in disdain before looking back up at the dark horse-man. Ajax. "He is near his own kind. Help will be swift coming. We owe this abomination no favour."
Ajax simply shifted Harry's small bulk into a more comfortable position, smiling reassuringly down at Harry before shooting a dark look at the palamino, his gaze matched by the other horse-men that surrounded the commotion. Most seemed to agree with Ajax. "They know not that he is here and they are no longer his kind or people. I shall take him to Zeroun. This is not for debate."
And that seemed to be the end of that: the palamino let the argument go, and stepped back into the group of horse-men that had gathered, glaring bitterly at Harry all the while. The wolf cub shivered, and burrowed deeper into Ajax's forearms. The dark horse-man smiled down at his burden as Harry yawned, and stroked his index finger down the scarlet jagged lightning bolt that cut it's way through his jet black fur. "Sleep well, little one, for you have so many miles to go when you wake."
Unable to keep his eyes open, Harry simply blinked blearily up at the shadowed face of Ajax, before his eyes slid uncontrollably shut.
Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 14th January 1988
Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore pulled his head from the fire in his office, and rocked back on his heels before straightening to his full height, suddenly feeling the full weight of his years on his old bones. His eyes, usually light blue twinkles, were dull and dead and distant. His face and crooked nose, creased with age and wrinkles suddenly seemed drawn and tired. He stared into the fire for a long moment, the light from the flames reflecting from his half-moon glasses and bathing his pale skin in a warm amber glow.
"... Albus?" The voice, carrying a vague Scottish lilt, was tentative but it snapped him out of his dark thoughts as though he'd been bowled over by a rampaging Hippogriff.
Tired light blue eyes swivelled in their sockets to regard the woman who had spoken and he sighed heavily as he made his way behind his desk and took a seat behind the dark oak. He intertwined his fingers for a moment, squeezing them tightly around their opposing digits before giving into the urge and reaching for a lemon drop. He selected one of the Muggle sweets from the large, ornately carved pensieve-like bowl that resided on the far corner of his desk and unwrapped it slowly, popping it into his mouth and sucking for one long moment before answering, gesturing that the woman, who was clothed in emerald green robes, should take a seat. She almost reluctantly, but very primly, lowered herself into an overly-stuffed armchair and waited expectantly.
"What we feared has come to pass, Minerva. Young Harry Potter has disappeared from his relative's care."
A gasp from Gryffindor's Head of House was all that Dumbledore needed to know that his Deputy Head understood the implications. For six long years, ever since Harry James Potter had been placed under the care of the Dursley's, they had feared such a thing. Though the Dark Lord Voldemort had long been banished, there were still plenty of his followers lingering in the shadows and resisting capture, who would happily bring pain and death to the young boy who had been their Lord's downfall.
"But the wards, Albus ... you cast the spell yourself ..." McGonagall's voice was tight as she tried to keep from sinking even further into the brilliant red armchair than she already had. The soft squishiness of the furniture seemed to want to swallow her whole.
"And they failed." Dumbledore said heavily.
McGonagall looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "Death Eaters?" She asked, sounding very much like she didn't want to know the answer.
The Headmaster's twinkle died a fraction more as he answered, "The Ministry has found no magical signatures in the area and Arabella confirms their findings, yet ... residue of lycanthropic activity has been detected. Harry could have been taken from his home by physical force rather than by any magical means."
The woman let out a shaky breath. "What ... what do we do?"
"Send an owl to Remus Lupin. Let him know of the situation." Dumbledore said after a moment's pause, and Minerva nodded immediately, pulling herself from the plush chair and quickly exiting the office. Watching as the door slammed shut behind her, Dumbledore felt a heavy weight settle on his knee. A quiet trill sounded up from his lap, and he glanced down with a small smile to find Fawkes resting on his knee. The phoenix cocked his head at his bonded and trilled for the second time, a reassuringly melodious note.
Nodding to himself, Dumbledore stood from the chair and made his way over to the fireplace, taking a handful of floo powder from the simple jar on the mantle piece. Ducking, he folded his tall but thin body into the alcove and called out sharply, "Number seven, Wisteria Walk."
1 The battle horn I've used for the Centaurs is the Carnyx, an ancient Celtic battle horn which has been reported to sound like something of a cross between a 'fresh-skewered boar and the Loch Ness serpent in heat'. Basically, it scared the bejesus out of enemies, just as it did to Harry. The Celts pretty much dominated Northern Europe once upon a time, from what I've found in my research, and there have been archeological finds in Scotland which suggest the presence of the Carnyx there. So it's not unthinkable that the Centaurs would use one.
Didn't Harry break his arm? Does he have like super!super-healing or something: Um ... right. Okay. This is just me being forgetful and inconsistent. Yeah, in the original version of my prologue or chapter one or whatever I called it :sweatdrop: I hinted that I'd broken Harry's arm ... and then promptly forgot all about it since I hadn't originally meant to. I've gone back and edited it out so that he doesn't break anything. As for the super!super-healing thing ... well, no. He's going to have accelerated healing, sure, but you're going to have to wait to see just how fast 'accelerated' is. And remember that his leg wound in this chapter healed with the help of herbs and natural medicinal remedies and what not. Merlin bless Centaurs, aye?
Um ... hello? Werewolves transform on full moons: Of course they do. Well, werewolves that aren't Harry, anyway. I was sure I'd put this in the disclaimer for my first chapter ... but then I looked back and realised I'd deleted my usual 'title, authoress, disclaimer and preliminary author's notes' from the chapter, so I guess that's a moot point. In this case, all shall be explained in due time (probably whenever Harry finally runs in to Dumbledore). :winks at KitsuneSkye203:
So how exactly did Harry get from Surrey to the Forbidden Forest, again: When the explanations finally start flowing, this is something that will be covered then, too. Though I'll admit to being surprised that no one's guessed it - I'm really not trying to catch you out with this. Whatever it sounds like is probably exactly what it is.
Lastly, I've gone back and messed around with the dates a little so that the phases of the moon work. I probably wouldn't have bothered 'cept, ironically enough, on the 19th January 1988, there was no moon in the sky whatsoever. Typical, huh? Lol.