Title: Pack Mentality
Authoress: Freyarri
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot and any OCs that pop up in this story. So I'd like to thank J. K. Rowling for the Harry Potter verse that I so enjoy playing with and Kelley Armstrong for the particular 'breed' of werewolf that Harry's ended up being.
Summary: When young Harry Potter, aged seven and a half, is bitten by a werewolf the results are … unexpected, to say the least.
Author's Notes: Well, I realised a while back that I'd never gotten around to putting this part into my prologue. That was bad, so I figured I'd add it. Hmm. So, in this chapter we have our first glimpse of Remus, the makings of the makings of an explanation and the next real plot device. Yay. Heh. As a side note, I know as much as I can about the Centaurs without being willing to reread OotP. So any mistakes or OOCness is my fault and my fault alone and won't be getting any better in any chapters that the Centaurs are featured in. Heh.
Lastly, I know this chapter is a little … lengthy, and not the most action-packed for the most part. But it's necessary, and a lot of the stuff in here is important for the plot and the development of the cuteness and fluff and knock down, drag out action that I have planned for later. So unfortunately you're going to just have to yuck it up … and wait for chapter five. Lol.
Ooh, ooh, AND I'm also going to run out of wolf quotes to put at the start of my chapters eventually. So if you have any you really like, whether they be famous, lyrical or something you made-up, send them my way, and I'll credit you if I end up using them.
Chapter Four
"To look into the eyes of a wolf is to see your own soul - hope you like what you see." - Aldo Leopold.
Wisteria Walk, Surrey, 14th January 1988
Dumbledore straightened and stepped out of the deep alcove with a grace that should have been impossible for someone who had just been spat out by a particularly temperamental fireplace. The living room he stepped into was covered in a rich peach wallpaper which proudly displayed bunches of cream flowers every foot or so along the border. The cloying air was heavy, as though a window hadn't been opened to let any fresh air in for a long time, and it smelled of cats and the unmistakeable, yet unidentifiable, tang of age.
Not pausing to brush off non-existent vestiges of soot as he normally would have or to straighten imaginary creases in his deep purple robes, Dumbledore discreetly slipped his wand from his sleeve, and strode purposefully from the living room and out of the front door. He didn't pause to locate Arabella Figg, the owner of the house and it's fireplace - he knew exactly where she'd be - but instead continued walking down the drive and out onto the street, turning to head for number four Privet Drive.
As unaffected as he was by floo travel, Dumbledore would have much rather apparated to number four. It was quicker and, if he was honest, much more impressive than the use of floo powder. Normally Albus Dumbledore wasn't a wizard given to going out of his way to impress people, but if the people who had taken Harry from the safety and sanctuary of his relative's home were watching his arrival, then Dumbledore would not be loathe at all to admit that he wanted to appear as intimidating and powerful as possible. However, while it seemed as though the wards protecting Harry from malevolent forces while he was under his relative's care had fallen, the anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards were still intact and just as powerful as ever. While that meant that Dumbledore had to walk the two streets from Wisteria Walk to Privet Drive, it also meant that whoever had stolen Harry away that night would have had to physically move a quite possibly conscious and struggling young Harry Potter. That could be traced just as easily as any magical getaway, if not easier.
As Dumbledore finally turned onto Privet Drive, the stars twinkled like chiselled diamond in the inky sky above and a cool breeze swept across his creased skin. Twilight had been threatening when he had first stepped into the fireplace at his office in Hogwarts and at some point during the ride between locations night had finally fallen. Normally floo powder didn't take so long to get a witch or wizard from point A to point B, but Dumbledore himself had overseen the veritable mountain of charms and curses that had been layered on and around all of the floo network connections within a mile radius of The-Boy-Who-Lived's home. Only witches and wizards keyed into the safety catch in the connection could pass, but even then it took time.
Time which could very well prove costly this night. Very costly, indeed.
The suburb of Privet Drive was almost mind-numbingly monotonous. Every house was the exact same size and the exact same shape and the exact same shade of brick. The gardens were all neatly trimmed in geometrical layouts which didn't vary much from neighbour to neighbour; the most wild and nonconformist being Mr and Mrs Harkness who lived at number seven and who had decided to have a circular lawn rather than a perfectly square one. In the drives, and parked out in front of their respective houses, every single car was shiny and new and, regardless of make or colour (though they were all dark shades), all obviously family cars. Even the curtains hanging in the windows were arranged with military precision to hang just so. To say that Professor Dumbledore looked out of place would be an understatement, but he didn't seem to care as he stopped outside number four for a moment, and then turned up the drive and to the door.
Dumbledore rang the bell, a heavy 'ding dong' echoing through the house on the other side of the door. He could hear the almost politely puzzled murmur of voices from within the house, and then a heavy bulk passed in front of the warm amber glow of light that seeped from the window above the bronze knocker. The door opened and a stout, heavily built man with a moustache and no neck peered out. The man's eyes narrowed as he took in Dumbledore's robes and pointed wizard's hat.
"We're not interested in buying anything - " The man said hastily, stepping back and making to slam the door shut.
Ordinarily, Dumbledore would have had the patience and the interest required to play the game that the Muggle had started, and would have let the door shut in his face before knocking again and waiting to see if the man would open the door for the second time. Now, however ... now he just didn't have time. With a flick of his wrist he forced the door open before it could click shut and regarded the man steadily, the twinkle in his eye long gone. "I am not here to sell you anything, Mr. Dursley, but to ask you some questions about your nephew, Harry Potter."
Mr. Dursley's eyes widened and he shot a quick, panicked glance in the direction of the living room. Ah, they had company? Delightful. "He was a freak." The stout man hissed lowly, leaning forwards slightly so he wouldn't have to raise his voice, and all the while trying vainly to close the door in the aged wizard's face, "Just like the rest of you. If he's finally found some pride in himself and gotten himself killed or lost far, far away from me and my family then I see no reason to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now if you would kindly - "
"Stay for some tea? It would be a pleasure." Dumbledore interrupted smoothly, face and voice hard as he stepped past Vernon Dursley and made his way into the living room, the man of the house sputtering in the hall behind him before realising that he could now finally close the front door. He did so, and stomped heavily after Dumbledore.
The wizard looked around the living room tersely as he entered it, inclining his head in greeting as he spotted Mrs Figg seated on the far side of the three-seater sofa, looking as though she was trying her hardest to be as far away as possible from the seven-year-old boy who she was sharing the piece of furniture with. "Ah, Arabella, what a pleasant surprise."
"Albus." Arabella nodded, copying Dumbledore's earlier action with a dark, unhappy smile as she cradled the piping hot cup of tea she'd been nursing closer to her lap.
Out of the corner of his peripheral vision, Dumbledore caught a flash of movement and turned his head slowly, unconcerned, to catch Mrs. Dursley springing to her feet in a mixture of shock and horror. "V-vernon!" She cried, spluttering out a series of garbled gibberish as she pointed at Dumbledore like he was a trout with three heads or some deadly contagion that had taken human form. Her husband rushed to her side, making calming noises and turning to glare at the Headmaster.
"Mummy?" The squeaky voice warbled from the sofa in confusion, and was largely ignored until Petunia realised her baby was in distress and pushed past her husband, rushing over to the seven-year-old and all but collapsing on the settee by his side, putting an arm around the large boy's shoulders and hugging him tight to her. Arabella discreetly inched just that little bit further away, her elderly face warped with distaste.
"Ssh. Its okay, Diddums. Mummy's got you." Petunia procured a strawberry-flavoured lollypop out of no where and presented it to the child as a peace offering to keep the tears at bay. The large boy accepted it, and the brightly-coloured wrapper was lying on the plush cream carpet within seconds. With Dudley distracted, Petunia and Vernon shared a meaningful glance across the expanse of the living room. Petunia nodded and got to her feet, and opened her arms to her son. "Let's get you to bed, sweetheart, you must be tired after your long day."
Dudley blinked blankly up at her before he seemed to catch the meaning behind her words and screwed his face up. His mouth snapped open, the lollypop falling from his lips and sticking to the beige settee. Petunia quickly snatched it up, looking like she was suffering from a mild heart attack when she saw the ruby red stain that had been left on the cushion, before she visibly swallowed back any reaction that she could have possibly had and glanced back up at Dudley, a weak smile fixed on her lips. Dudley sucked in a deep breath and, eyes still open to gauge his parent's reaction, he prepared to wail ...
"Dudley. Listen to your mother." Vernon snapped, a harsh bark.
Dudley's mouth snapped shut in shock and he blinked at his father in disbelief. Lips pursed tightly, distressed at how they were being forced to treat their baby, Petunia wrapped her hand around the blonde boy's wrist and led a stunned seven-year-old from the room. Vernon waited until he heard Dudley's bedroom door click shut loudly before he turned angrily to Dumbledore, jabbing a pudgy index finger in the wizard's direction.
"I don't know who it is you think you are, what it is about your freakishness that makes you think that you have the right to blackmail and threaten your way into someone's life - someone who is perfectly normal and decent and everything that your kind," Vernon spat the word as though he was swearing, "isn't, but it stops now!" In his rage, Vernon found himself advancing on Dumbledore who, for his part, remained exactly where he was, eyes starting to darken with some unnameable emotion that was hotter than anger, colder than disgust, and more righteous than indignation. Out of the corner of his eye Dumbledore saw Arabella huff and make to rise. He stilled her with the barest shake of his head and she sank back down onto the sofa.
"I apologise for any inconvenience that my actions may have caused you, Mr. Dursley, but the fact remains that your nephew is of a great deal of importance to the wizarding world. If you know anything of his disappearance now is the time to speak." Dumbledore's words were calm but firm and seemed to drain some of the anger out of Mr. Dursley.
The man shook his head, reaching up to draw his palm across the rough expanse of skin that was his chins ... plural as it was. He let out a loud, frustrated breath of air and shook his head again, harder. "The boy took Dudley's dog for a walk a fortnight ago and never came back. We had no part in it."
"And the dog?"
Vernon's gaze, which had been flittering nervously around the living room and occasionally up to the ceiling where his wife and son were, snapped back to Dumbledore's own cerulean stare. For a moment he shifted, mouth opening and closing like a floundering fish as he considered just what to reveal to the formidable Headmaster. "A neighbour found the remains just outside of the park the morning after the boy disappeared." He said finally, gaze shifting back to the carpet. Vernon's challenging and angry state of mind had faded as soon as he had started answering Dumbledore's questions and now he stood here like a condemned man facing his jury and awaiting any retaliatory punishment. "There was nothing left but a lot of meat."
There was a long silence after Vernon's statement, broken up only by Arabella's pained intake of breath. Dumbledore glanced at the elderly woman, a curious glint in his eyes as he saw that she'd already known. It was just the sort of truth that hit you with all of the subtlety of a brick between the eyes every single time you heard it spoken out loud.
After a moment more Mr. Dursley seemed to decide that he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb and he added, "The police said some sort of wild animal did it." His confidence seemed to be returning in some sort of second wind and he puffed himself up as he met Dumbledore's eyes again. "So, as you can see, me and my family had nothing to do with the boy's bloody Houdini act. Now get out of my house!"
Arabella had apparently had enough. She had been sitting quietly through Mr. Dursley's explanation; occasionally shooting him an annoyed glaring frown when he insulted either Harry or Albus, or gasping in fear for the poor young boy when appropriate. Now, however, she shot to her feet with a speed that belied her age. "Mr. Dursley!"
Dumbledore shook his head and she snapped her mouth shut with a frustrated, and clearly audible, click. "Very well." He said, sounding deceptively amicable. He gestured for Arabella to precede him through the door. She did so, though her movements were stiff with the urge to whirl around and take Vernon Dursley to task. He followed her, and let the door click shut behind him with a whisper of wandless magic.
Arabella was waiting for him in the porch, her hands kneading together and her lined jaw clasped tightly closed. Dumbledore imagined that he could hear her teeth starting to give under the pressure but, of course, he couldn't. Instead all he could hear was the quiet whirring in his ear that seemed to accompany what was otherwise total and complete silence. If he strained he could hear Arabella's distressed breathing and the sound of Mr. Dursley's bulk as he crested the stairs. But he wasn't straining. Instead he simply nodded at Arabella and started down the drive.
She followed quickly, scrambling at his heels and trying to twist around him to see his features. "What now, Albus?"
"Where was the dog's body found?" Dumbledore asked after a split second's hesitation, stopping at the foot of the drive.
Arabella exhaled unsteadily, "the attack happened by the edge of the park. Albus, I - I've read the auror reports of the war and I've seen plenty of war wounds in my day, but … if it was a spell that got that poor dog I've never seen anything like it. If Harry … "
She trailed off and Dumbledore nodded once, twinkle long gone. "I think it best, Arabella, if we don't consider young Harry's fate until we are presented with no other option." He rested his hand reassuringly on Arabella's shoulder. "If you'd be so kind as to show me the … site."
The heavy weight of his hand on her shoulder seemed to be comfort enough and she nodded sharply after a moment, drawing herself up to her full height. "O-of course. The park is just past those houses."
The walk to the park was made in silence. Arabella seemed to be struggling to keep from folding in on herself, but Dumbledore didn't say anything to try and reassure her. Instead he let his thoughts engulf him as he walked, musing over the conundrum that he found himself faced with, until he didn't even notice the curtains twitching in the windows.
They made it to the park in good time. Arabella stopped dead centre in the middle of the road and inhaled wearily. Dumbledore turned his gaze on her, less questioning than knowingly patient, and she helplessly gestured ahead to the strips of yellow police tape that criss-crossed their way across the street in front of them. The wizened old wizard stared at the words on the tape for no more than second, and they left a foul taste in his mouth even though he hadn't spoken them: crime scene.
The crime scene, as it were, was the stubbed end of the street, devoid of all residence, that ended at the park gates. Thick, impenetrable walls of trees rose up on either side of the road and occasionally the weak, fledging wind blew just right and Dumbledore could see glimpses of the street yonder. He wondered if these whispering imposers had been the last thing that young Harry had seen before what ever had happened … had happened.
Once his eyes had drank their fill of the surrounding scenery, Dumbledore turned his heavy, tired gaze to the actual scene.
"Lumos." He needed more light than a simple streetlight or wandless charm could ever hope to provide. Even with his spell shining at full strength, shadows lingered and a dullness remained cast over the world. There was little of interest within the proclaimed crime scene, lending credence to the idea that the local police had simply gotten a tad tape-happy - there were few, if any, incidents in Little Whinging that justified the breaking out of yellow crime scene tape, after all. The police had no doubt been itching to use it.
The foliage he had so carefully considered earlier made sense now, as undamaged as it was, as he saw the only evidence of a struggle: a cracked impact crater the size of a large man's fist in the middle of the road; whatever had occurred here had never so much as reached the pavement. It had been over that quickly … or, alternatively, it had been that one-sided. His eyes clouded and Arabella fidgeted at the edge of his peripheral vision, discreetly reaching up to wipe at her cornea. Dumbledore turned expectantly, his face lined and old. But it wasn't Arabella who spoke next.
"Professor Dumbledore?" The voice was male, young, unassuming and a little hoarse. He sounded concerned. "Arabella."
"Ah, Remus." Dumbledore turned on being addressed, the corners of his lips failing to turn upwards as he regarded the young man striding towards himself and Arabella. "I'm glad you could make it."
Remus J. Lupin was in his late twenties, but already there was a smattering of salt and pepper in his otherwise sandy brown hair. He hadn't had much to celebrate over the last ten years, and the stress had taken its toll on his appearance as surely and steadily as the sun set in the sky every evening and the night fell in its wake. His face was tired and his skin was a few shades too pale to be healthy.
"I got here as soon as I could." Remus asserted, looking like he wasn't quite sure that it had been enough. Had he missed anything? He didn't - his nose twitched. And then again. And once more.
Dumbledore seemed to realise that he didn't have his former student's full attention and his brow creased ever so slightly. "What is it, my boy?"
Remus frowned. He recognised the odours playing under his nose with a degree of certainty that he doubted he'd have even had if they were labelled. There was a scent that was unmistakably canine, some big breed that was more licks than growls; and then the really interesting - bewildering - alarming things. One scent was familiar in the way only a lion can be familiar to a lion. Another werewolf had been here. He sniffed again … but not recently. The other was a particular combination that he'd been set to memorising years ago and one that had never even begun to fade from his sensory banks. Harry.
Sirius had been the first to voice the idea, and Remus had forever let the traitor - murderer! - believe that he had been the one to come up with the concept of ingraining Harry's scent into Remus' nose. No matter that he had already started the task of remembering every last thing about his cub, down to every last sniffle, scent included.
Their 'own personal tracker dog for when the kid turns teenage and does the requisite mad dash from purgatory', Sirius had called it, earning himself a solid thwack from Lily. Lily who had possessed quite the arm and Sirius who had never given their ever so slightly dysfunctional family the chance to make it to Harry's teenage years. Sirius who had betrayed them all to Voldemort. Sirius who had killed Lily and James. Sirius who had -
"Remus?" Dumbledore. He sounded worried. Oh, right.
"There was a werewolf here. Not recently. Maybe a week or two ago." Remus replied, a tad shortly. His fists were curled at his side and his eyes were transfixed on a point just past the Headmaster's head. Suddenly though, he let his eyes slip past Dumbledore and to the yellow tape. "And Harry … Harry was here with it."
Arabella started. "A werewolf? Oh no," she murmured in a breathy gasp that wasn't quiet enough to really be defined as a true whisper, and turned to Dumbledore, the inflection of her voice suggesting that at least for a moment she'd forgotten who else she was in the company of. Remus didn't mind - he treasured moments like those. When people forgot he was a monster and saw only the human façade that hid the wolf so neatly. But the wolf was always there, always lurking. "Albus - Harry!"
"I was afraid of as much." Dumbledore said tiredly, mind fluttering back to the dog's fate. He glanced back at the crime scene, momentarily ignoring Arabella's panicked fretting and the shade of even paler white that Remus' face had turned. Of course, he'd known, but he'd so hoped …
"Professor - please tell me this has nothing to do with Harry."
Dumbledore turned to Remus, and let heavy, unguarded eyes do the talking for him. He wondered just what Minerva had included in her explanatory letter to the young man. While she was often seen as iron-plated and matter-of-fact, beneath the strict, seemingly impenetrable exterior, Minerva McGonagall was soft-hearted and given to affectionate tendencies. Perhaps she'd left out some of the more key elements of this conundrum to protect the Dursley's and Remus himself until Dumbledore was present in person to soothe his fears and guilt and protective rage.
Remus let out a pained breath and slumped, shoulders tightening. Dumbledore stepped towards him and rested a comforting hand on his ex-student's shoulder. "This is not the place to speak of such things, my boy. The trees themselves have ears. Perhaps it would be best if you joined me in my office, hmm? We can discuss things further there." Remus nodded slowly. His cerulean gaze flittered to Arabella. "This invitation is, of course, extended to the both of you."
But Arabella shook her head, almost seemingly to come out of a dream. No, nightmare. "Thank you for the offer, Albus, but I have things to do here. The Ministry is - "
"Ah, yes, of course." Dumbledore said like he knew and was just remembering. Maybe he was. He nodded, "Then I shouldn't keep you."
Arabella nodded, recognising the dismissal for what it was, and understanding the unsaid 'inform me of any developments' that was implied. She turned from the two men and headed for her home at a brisk pace. For a moment Dumbledore and Remus simply watched her go, but then Remus let his head swing around to face the esteemed wizard beside him.
"Professor?"
"Come, my boy." Dumbledore said, turning from the crime scene and leading Remus a few feet away from it. While apparating into Privet Drive and the surrounding streets was impossible, apparating out was just as easy as it was any where else in the world. It had been set up that way for the protection of both Harry when he was older and for anyone protecting him should they need to make a quick escape. "To Hogsmeade."
And, with that, Dumbledore disappeared from the street with a quiet pop. Remus glanced over his shoulder at the crime scene for one long, indecisive moment. Then he let out a breath of pained air and disappeared too, following Dumbledore to Hogsmeade.
The Three Broomsticks, Hogsmeade, 14th January 1988
The shot glass, drained of Fire Whiskey, was slammed into the table with the sound of cracking wood. The blonde-haired woman seated at the table seemed oblivious to both the gunshot sound and the way the petite woman laden with the unenviable task of serving her shied away like she'd brandished a machete at her.
"How dare he?" The woman hissed, crimson-painted nails biting into the empty glass. Her blue eyes, true Caribbean sea blue, bore holes into the seat opposite her from behind falsely bejewelled spectacles, but she wasn't really seeing. Her heavy-set jaw was clenched and her thickly-pencilled eyebrows were furrowed so tight that it had to be painful. She was the perfect epitome of righteous fury and, Merlin, if she wasn't articulating it. "How dare he threaten me? Me! Rita Skeeter! I'm that damnable fool's goddamn pay check and he knows it!"
But the sad fact of the matter was that just wasn't true. Rita hadn't been anyone's pay check in a long time. Not since the early 80s when her report on the Ludo Bagman trial had pioneered the way for all gossip in all papers. Everyone had wanted her. Everyone had adored her. He had been damned lucky to get her, and this was how he repaid her?
On the other side of the table, a paunchy man swallowed slightly, unerringly attracting Rita's attention. Her eyes narrowed, jaw tensed and ground together with the sound of cracking teeth. Suddenly she bolted to her feet like a shotgun blast, and spun away, clicking her fingers over her shoulder, "Come, Bozo, we're leaving this … pit of stench and sickening failure." She said, loud enough to carry to the bar. Madame Rosmerta shot a fiery, heartfelt glare in the almost-but-not-quite-sacked-yet reporter's direction, but it went unnoticed as Rita continued to sashay out of the door. "Before it starts catching."
The night air, as she stepped out into it, did little to soothe Rita.
So he wanted a story, did he? A story or she was out, was it? Rita's upper lip curled as she felt Bozo's lumbering presence at her back. She could remember the embarrassment of being pulled into his office in the middle of the working day, the snickers of people behind her back as she walked down the aisle between cubicles. The whispers. The smirks and mutters of getting hers. Ooh, she'd show them.
Hissing to herself as she went, Rita continued out onto the street, heels clomping on the cobbled pathway. She'd only gotten five paces when the first, damn near silent 'pop' rang out through the still night air. Reflexes honed from years of journalistic snooping had Rita twisting into a shadow, and dragging Bozo after her by the scruff of the neck. He spluttered in alarm and indignant protest, but Rita slammed her large hand across his mouth, and just in time, too, as Albus Dumbledore appeared in the middle of the street and looked … warningly in their direction. Hidden in the shadows, and erroneously confident that Dumbledore couldn't see her, Rita paid his expression no heed, pursing her lips together in thought.
What was Albus Dumbledore, esteemed Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry doing in the middle of Hogsmeade on a dead winter's night such as this?
Another pop echoed along the street, this one much louder than the first, and a worried-looking, bedraggled werewolf took in his surroundings with a blink and a sniff. As could be predicted, his head almost immediately shot around so that he was staring into the shadows that cloaked the journalist and her camera man. Rita's breath hitched in her throat - how good was a werewolf's night vision …?
Remus opened his mouth to speak, eyes narrowing and regarding her with a weary, unfriendly stare. Before the sounds could form words in his throat, however, Dumbledore cut in with a swift, pointed word. The sandy-haired wolf ducked his head reluctantly, and then followed the Headmaster in the direction of Hogwarts.
Rita waited until she was sure they were long gone and out of hearing range, and then she relinquished her grip against Bozo's mouth, not so discreetly wiping the saliva away on his robe leg as she stepped past him and out into the street.
"Well, well, well. Tell me, Bozo: what do you get when the greatest light wizard of the time and a known dark creature show up in such a circumspect place in the middle of the night?"
Bozo swallowed and floundered as he stepped up behind her, staring after Remus and the Headmaster in very much the same way she was, only with a great deal more confusion. "I … I don't know, ma'am."
Rita grinned, a predatory flash of teeth that was threatening and mean and anticipatory all at the same time, as she stared after the duo's retreating backs. "A story. What you get is a damn good story."
The Forbidden Forest, Hogwarts, 15th January 1988
When Harry awoke he was buffeted against soft leather and cushy feathers. Everything was warm and moulded to his body like the bedding had been built especially for him. For a long moment he hung there, torn between consciousness and blissful oblivion and then he felt it: a presence was hovering over him, and fingers were carefully fluttering over his hind leg. His eyes fluttered open.
Everything around him was a shade of green or brown and held in shadows fractions darker than the outside world. The air was cool and clean, and the fingers fell from his fur as he shifted so that he could sniff the surrounding air better. From his new sitting position Harry took in his surroundings. There was a roof high above his head made out of tree trunks and wide, thick leaves. The ground around the nest that he'd been nestled in was made of cut bark and the outside world was hidden from view by curtains of tanned hide.
But they didn't block out the sounds. From outside the thick sheets of leather Harry could hear a quiet, sort of composed chaos of everyday life. The sound of voices laughing quietly. The sound of people talking. The sound of people passing. And, at the very edges of his hearing, the clash of staffs and grunts of exertion and, even beyond that, the sound of the ever present wildlife that surrounded them.
He was alone in the hut, for that was what it was, bar from one of the Centaurs lying by his little nest. Harry cocked his head in the Centaur's direction, sniffing the air curiously. His nose only confirmed what his eyes were telling him: female.
The female centaur was slighter than her male counterparts who had rescued him from the acromantulas, and as opposed to the bulky upper body strength that Ajax had possessed, there was only the vaguest hint of muscle tone beneath her pale skin. Her hair, both on her head and on her equine body, was a dark brown with elusive hints of coppery red and her eyes were a dark, mossy green leagues less pure than Harry's own otherworldly stare. Her face was covered in a smattering of freckles and, Harry noted with some of the detached objectivity that only came from children observing adults, that she was dangerously close to being pretty and not much else: her forehead was a smidgeon too high, her nose a tad too long, and her lips just that little bit too pursed. She was wearing a brown leather tank top and there was a white lily threaded behind her ear. She was smiling at him.
"Finally, you awake. You have been sleeping a long time, young cub." The young female stated in a dreamy, detached voice. "Zeroun was starting to get impatient - he would like to see you before sun down tonight. But first I must check your bandages … "
And only then did Harry notice the leather bands pulled taunt around his flank where the acromantula had managed to skewer him. His nose twitched as he stretched around to study them, and he couldn't repress the automatic disgruntled grunt that emitted from his throat as he jerked his head backwards away from the putrid scent.
The sound of misty laughter reached his sensitive ears, and Harry's head snapped around to glare indignantly at the Centaur. Still smiling with mirth, the Centaur reached for him. "Calm yourself, young pup - it is nothing but a poultice to heal your injuries. The ingredients for which are naturally grown in our Forest."
Harry eyed the hands reaching for him distrustfully, and backed up away from the extended limbs. Though the Centaur immediately stopped her approach, he continued to shuffle backwards on his small nest … until he ran out of nest to retreat to and his hind legs lost their purchase, sending him toppling to the bark-covered ground. There was another spurt of distant laughter, and the sound of bark being disrupted. The noise caused by the Centaur's hooves as she rounded the nest and crouched back by his side was muffled, but Harry still heard it. He peered up at the Centaur's smiling face and let a wobbly, rough little growl escape his lips. Her smile grew into an adoring twist of her lips.
"I apologise for laughing, little one. My name is Althea; I wish only to help. Would you be more comfortable, perhaps, if I called for Ajax? He was the one who saved you from the beasts." Althea provided gently, kneeling on her forelegs before him.
Harry paused and then scrambled to his paws. He felt a dull pain in his hind leg, like the skin already knitted was tearing apart and he grimaced, a funny little scrunch of his nose in wolf form. Tossing his head, Harry ignored it, and wobbled forwards to Althea. He butt his head against her foreleg and let out a little yip of consent. It was okay; she didn't need to find Ajax.
Althea, whose face had morphed into one of concerned worry, smiled softly and reached down to collect Harry in her hands. "Very well. Let's get you comfortable, little cub. You shall see Ajax shortly regardless. He has been stopping by every day to the exact hour in the hopes of seeing you awake. Zeroun has asked that he report upon your condition, also. I would surmise that you shall be receiving your share of visitors soon. You should rest until then." Althea twisted around and gently deposited Harry back into his little nest. She shifted slightly on the bark until she was more comfortably facing him and then she reached for the bandages that covered much of his back leg.
It didn't hurt when she unravelled the white cloth, a clear sign that the dressings had been changed often during his slumber. A firm hand on his shoulder, soft and scented from the herbs and pastes used in his poultice, kept his head in place and prevented him from twisting to inspect his wound himself. "Careful, young one, your wound is still as new as Mars is bright in the sky."
But Harry whimpered and squirmed, pressing insistently against the hand holding him in place and, as she finally pulled the last of the bandage from his fur, Althea allowed him a look at his leg. The poultice had prevented any swelling, and so he got a good, clear look at the gash. It was a healthy pink and the bleeding had long since stopped. The skin had knitted together successfully, if a bit tenuously. Just looking at the nearly healed puncture, it would have been impossible to guess that Harry's entire hind leg had been ran through.
Althea studied his leg for a long while. When her index finger skimmed along the middle of his wound, Harry hissed and snapped at her hand. The look she gave him was more reproachful than her usual mellow gaze, and he whimpered, nuzzling his head back against the downy side of his nest. Althea brought the pad of her finger up to her face and smiled.
"There is no blood. This is good news. The poultice has worked to prevent bacterial infection - provided you are careful, I see no reason for you to go without bandages." Althea smiled tenderly down at the wolf cub that Harry was and he snorted in empathetic agreement. As much as he appreciated the medical aid that he was so unaccustomed to, he'd prefer that his movements were not restricted by something so obvious against his pitch black fur.
Harry scrambled back up to his feet, testing his weight on his newly approved hind leg, and Althea didn't move to stop him. He yelped slightly as he tried to move it: it was stiff and there was a dull ache centred around his wound, but otherwise it felt as good as new.
Harry had just bounded down from the nest that he'd been sleeping on earlier when a large form eclipsed the light from the outside world. Harry started and his head shot around to the hut's entrance. The entrance and exit of the hut was a strip of leather that hadn't been bound together by the leather string that bound the rest. Part of it had been hung back against a wooden pole implanted into the ground near the hut for such a purpose to allow fresh air to circulate. Now a large, sandy-yellow form was standing in front of it, peering distastefully at Harry with hard, angular features.
"Fjord, greetings." Althea got to her feet slowly, hooves scuffing against the bark as she turned to meet the newcomer head on. Harry, recognising the palomino from the Forest and the battle between the Centaurs and the Acromantula, skittered quickly away from the no man's land he was currently standing in and behind Althea's left front hoof.
It hit his seven and a half year old brain for the first time just then how surreal and impossible this situation was. Before he'd been too relieved and too young and still half-asleep to appreciate that he was being tended by a half-woman, half-horse hybrid that by all rights couldn't exist. But now his brain was jolted into highly unwelcome logic and the realisation that no where in any of his school books had there been mention of such a thing as a horse-man. He stared in uneasy awe up at Althea's belly and then to the angry horse-man standing before them and shrank in on himself. How could - ?
Fjord's blue eyes followed Harry's progress across the bark floor and behind Althea's protective hoof and frowned. His mouth opened and - then suddenly closed as his head shot to his right and his frown deepened. Another horse-man joined him at the flap, one infinitely darker and yet infinitely more friendly. Ajax. Fjord snorted in derision, and then turned away, his hooves clomping solidly on the compact dirt as he trotted off.
Ajax watched him go for a long while with a regretful frown on his face before turning back to the hut and spotting Harry. His frown faded and a relieved smile took its place, creasing the corners of his mouth.
"Our young friend is awake. I was starting to wonder." Ajax said, and the black horse-man ducked his head as he entered the hut. "Zeroun will want to see him."
Althea frowned vaguely, "Zeroun would want to see him now?" She lifted the hoof that Harry was still hiding behind and nudged the wolf cub out into the open a little before placing it back on the ground behind the pup.
Ajax nodded, and his smile collapsed into what seemed to be an otherwise perpetual frown. "The Eternal One wishes to speak with him. It sounded of utmost importance - Zeroun himself has been forbidden to question the cub further before she has seen him. Zeroun wishes for their meeting to take place as soon as can be done."
That drew an understanding nod from Althea and she pushed Harry further towards Ajax with her hoof. "Go now, little one, Ajax shall be with you."
The sudden push of Althea's hoof against his butt caught Harry by surprise and he stumbled forwards a few paces, nearly tripping over his own paws. For a long, teetering moment, it was touch and go as to whether or not he'd be able to keep his paws beneath him, but Ajax trotted quickly across the distance between them and scooped him up before the question of his stability and balance could really be answered. The Centaur's long, darkly skinned fingers curled around Harry's middle as he hoisted the wolf cub up to eye level, squeezing his digits together gently and indenting his fur.
From his new vantage point, eye to eye with the larger creature, Harry cocked his head to one side fast enough to warrant whiplash, and inquisitively regarded Ajax. He was rewarded with a serene half-smile in return, and then Harry found himself being returned to solid ground.
"Come, wolf cub, the Eternal One awaits your council." Ajax gifted Althea with a smile that seemed somehow more intent and aware even though it was just as disconnected as a Centaur's facial expression always seemed to be, and then turned and left the hut, gesturing for Harry to follow.
The wolf cub did so after a questioning glance back at Althea earned him a reassuring nod and distracted twitch of her lips. Giving a startled little yip when he realised Ajax wasn't so much as waiting for him, Harry scrambled out of the hut and into the midday sun.
The sun was warm on Harry's back, easily heating up his heavy, winter coat. At first Harry was surprised, both because it was winter and that particular British season wasn't celebrated for being good beach weather, and because in the heavily dense forest in which he'd ran and dodged and leaped for his life what felt like only minutes earlier, it was hard to believe that any light at all could penetrate the canopy. He looked up, pausing momentarily so he didn't over balance, and blinked.
It was blindingly obvious that the Centaur community was situated bang in the centre of an impressively - awe-inspiringly - large clearing. The sky above the tree line was cerulean and clear from all clouds and disturbances. However, as Harry lowered his head to the forest floor, the air trapped between the trees surrounding the clearing darkened progressively until it was an almost tangible, writhing thing prowling along the mist-covered ground.
The clearing was full of huts identical to the one that Harry had been sleeping in previously, all in different colour leathers, but there was a perimeter around the settlement: a ten metre barrier of nothing but empty space and the odd weed between the Centaur's and the rest of the Forest. Like some sort of flat moat.
Realising suddenly that he'd been in a world of his own, Harry snapped awake and bolted after the lazily retreating form of Ajax.
The hut in which Althea had been taking care of him was roughly in the middle of the settlement, and would have been exactly so had it not been for the larger, black hut that erupted from that spot, ornately decorated with gold and silver and mercury-coloured patterns of planetary orbit and constellations. The plainer hut was practically stitched onto the side of the larger - they were that close. While most of the settlement was a hodgepodge of huts, worn, winding trails leading from one place to another and smaller clearings, there was a straight, unobstructed road leading directly from Althea's hut to the perimeter. It was this road that Ajax lead Harry down.
"The main road in and out of Centaris." Ajax explained to Harry as he walked slowly down the road, his pace modified to accommodate Harry's injury.
Curious, Harry glanced around at his surroundings as he trotted with a barely noticeable limp after Ajax. As they walked down the road, Harry could see Centaurs standing outside their huts, talking in mellow voices; staring at the day sky, as though seeing the invisible, but ever present stars; trading commodities between each other. And all of them - every single last one - stopped what they were doing when they saw Harry. And glared. Somehow Harry didn't think that Fjord was the only one in Centaris who didn't particularly like him.
Ducking his head, Harry felt his ears pin themselves unhappily to the back of his head, and his shoulders slouched closer to the ground as he streaked forward and put himself directly underneath Ajax, who seemed blissfully unaware of the attention they were receiving. Harry's unnatural green eyes remained locked on the faces of the Centaur's eyeing him unpleasantly, though they skirted uneasily around their eyes. He snarled a warning - leave me alone. But they didn't, and didn't avert their gaze, though they didn't make any move towards him, either.
The Centaurs continued to stare unwaveringly, their heads swivelling on their necks to follow Ajax and Harry's progress, as the unlikely duo made their way down the main road out of Centaris at a pace which was much to slow for Harry's liking. As such, he was skittish under Ajax, darting about like a kitten on catnip. Of course, now Harry was more canine than his ethereal eyes seemed to suggest, but the simile didn't seem to mind.
They made it to the outskirts of Centaris without any of the Centaurs doing anything that was more threatening than a heartfelt glare. Standing, waiting for them, was a middle-aged looking Centaur, who had trickles of grey hairs threaded amongst the roan.
"Zeroun, Lord Gazer of the Skies," Ajax greeted, bowing low on his forelegs and causing Harry to skitter out from underneath him with a slightly strangled yelp. The black Centaur reached around, and scooped Harry up in one large palm before depositing him on the ground in front of the roan Centaur. "May I present to you the wolf child, healed and well and prophesised."
Zeroun, the roan, eyed Harry with kind eyes, and then nodded with a severity that contrasted the warmth radiating from the chocolate brown orbs. "Very well, Ajax. She is waiting. I shall take the cub from here."
She? Prophesised? Huh? Harry cocked his head in blatant confusion. But he couldn't ask. His lack of human vocal chords made any form of communication beyond well-timed head tilting, ear pricking, and the odd yelp or whimper impossible.
Ajax nodded and rose to his feet. Without so much as a second glance at Harry, the black horse-man left, wandering lazily back down the main road, headed for Althea's hut. Harry watched him go and moved to follow, but the roan's hand closed around the scruff of his neck and he was hoisted into the air, legs still wheeling. "No, cub, you are to come with me; the Lady of the Forest has waited most patiently for your audience."
Harry was carried, protesting in whimpers and squirming, across the flat moat that circled Centaris. It took them only minutes to reach the woodland beyond, but it felt like hours and Zeroun's hands, though gentle, were calloused and grazed against Harry's wound with every squirm.
Eventually the wolf pup calmed and allowed himself to be ferried deeper into the forest.
The walked along beaten tracks which were overgrown with ambitious weeds and branches. Zeroun protected Harry's body from the brunt of the foliage as they progressed further away from Centaris, but there was no one to protect the Centaur and the going slowed to a crawl.
No words were spoken during the trek: Zeroun was too busy fighting with the flora and Harry, struggles ceased, was looking around him with a quiet sort of awe. But there was no plant alive that was interesting enough to keep the curious seven-year-old's eyes away from the Centaur carrying him. The shock of so many traumatic events in such a short period of time was wearing off now, bringing with it a sense of simple curiosity that only a child under ten could possibly feel in such circumstances. At the age of still believing in fairies and unicorns and in the magic that his Uncle tried to so fiercely deny, the concept of a half-horse, half-man carrying him through a forest that also housed a colony of gigantuan spiders was not nearly as unbelievable as it might have been had he been only five years older. Which was, all in all, probably a good thing, as it was all about to get a whole lot stranger.
At first glance, the clearing that the two came across after twenty-five minutes of walking in what, as far as Harry could tell, was pretty much a perfectly straight line, was empty. It was lighter than one might have imagined, with streams of sunlight somehow finding a way to twist through the trees. The warmth that the sunlight provided seemed to staying in the clearing, the trees acting as corral. But, natural sauna that this place was, Harry saw no reason for him to be brought he -
He froze in his bewildered examination of his surroundings. Then his nose twitched. The combined scent of pine and earth and something distinctly female filled his nostrils until it was all his olfactory sense was aware of.
And then the trees moved.
Only it wasn't the trees, it was something in them. Something that just appeared in the uppermost branches, and slid rather than slithered to the ground, twisting sinuously around the tree trunk of the tree and stepping softly onto the soil.
It - she - was a woman, Harry realised with a slight jolt as she stepped towards him, powerful and calm all at once. She was tall and willowy as she strode towards the wolf and the Centaur, naked but for some conveniently placed strips of leather. Her hair was a light, golden-streaked brown and her eyes were a dark green, the colour of browning moss. Her skin was lightly tanned, and the aloof smile on her lips looked strangely out of place. Like her attitude didn't belong with her body.
Zeroun bowed to her, placing Harry on the ground and then, without so much as a backwards glance to Harry, left the clearing. The sounds of him crashing through the dense undergrowth echoed in his wake.
Harry stumbled up onto his paws, unsteady again. The woman's gaze switched to him, and he staggered backwards a few paces, legs wind milling as he scrambled to put distance between him and this new sensory overload. For now that she was closer, he didn't just smell the earth and female. He also smelled power. Lots and lots of power.
And then she smiled, a genuine twist of her lips, and her eyes softened to warm pools. "I've been waiting a long time to meet you … Harry Potter."
A/N: You were going to get an explanation for a lot of things this chapter, but then I got a review mentioning that I hadn't updated in seven months and I kind of went: 'Ohmigod, they're right!' So I'm putting up what I managed to write in those seven months and the explanation will just have to wait next chapter. So thanks to IsiwaruOfCkaloatia for reminding me that I was really, really overdue for an update. Don't any of you guys let me get away with doing that again, yeah?
Lastly, since this was such a dry chapter (though I have to admit I enjoyed doing the dialogue after all of the Werewolf!Harry-who-can't-speak-because-he's-a-wolf stuff) I've decided to give you a snippet of what might be coming next chapter. Just to keep you interested and reading (and hopefully reviewing):
It was Charlie who spotted the cowering wolf cub first. He shoved his broomstick into his older brother's surprised hands and cautiously closed the distance between himself and the black animal.
Harry's emerald eyes widened and he tried to scramble backwards, but Charlie, apparently sensing Harry's intentions, dug into his pocket and produced a strip of bacon. It was cold, but the scent of it still reached Harry's nose. His stomach rumbled and he paused in his getaway. Charlie grinned, and offered the meat. After a moment's hesitation, Harry crept forward and snatched it. He swallowed it down whole with some difficulty and then nuzzled Charlie's pocket for more.
Laughing, the seeker reached out to stroke Harry's head, gently scratching behind his ears as the rest of the victorious Gryffindor Quidditch team stood back and watched uncertainly.
Harry let an ambitious Charlie scoop him up, and eagerly downed the next strip of bacon when it was offered. Stomach sated even after such a small meal, Harry tentatively licked Charlie's cheek as the Gryffindor turned to present the wolf cub to the team and to his brother.
"What do you say, Bill?" Charlie asked, "can I keep 'im?"