Chapter One: Dogrose

"I never promised you a rose garden. I never promised you perfect justice... and I never promised you peace or happiness. My help is so that you can be free to fight for all of these things. The only reality I offer is challenge, and being well is being free to accept it or not at whatever level you are capable. I never promise lies, and the rose-garden world of perfection is a lie."

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Joanne Greenberg

Harry Potter, age seven and three quarters, stared up at the short man pacing restlessly before him. He was wearing a cloak that covered everything but his head, with skin darkened by the sun, and the strangest eyes that Harry had ever seen. They were yellow. Eyes weren't supposed to be yellow, were they? Everyone he knew had brown or blue. He had green, of course, and not the kind of green that was really more of a blue. His eyes were emerald green. It was just another sign, like the scar on his forehead or the strange occurrences that were drawn to him as a rose reaches towards the sun, that proved he was strange, a freak.

"Are you," he began hesitantly, pausing before gathering courage from deep within himself, "are you going to take me away?" He had dreamed of it often enough, lying in the dark cupboard. He dreamed he was special, that people cared, and, most often, he dreamed that someone would come and rescue him from the Dursleys. They would whisk him a way to a real home, and he would have a real family. Sometimes he pretended he was descended from the gods, like Heracles or Baeldaeg. Sometimes he envisioned that he had powers that no one else did, and that his fairy godmother or some wise old man would take him away to teach him. He had never told anyone of these fantasies, of course, for Aunt Petunia would scoff and tell him that no one wanted him, not even his drunkard parents who drowned themselves in alcohol because they hated his very existence. Uncle Vernon would roar that there was no such thing as magic, and that there was only the one god, his God, and that Harry would be damned to hell for his blasphemy. Harry himself much preferred the older gods, who at least didn't pretend they cared while condemning humans to suffering. Dudley would tell his gang, and the gang would laugh and punch him, demanding to know why his powers or gods or whatever weren't protecting him from their fists.

It seemed to him that Aunt Petunia was right, for no one ever came. He didn't like Uncle Vernon's god, because anything that Vernon swore by was bound to hate Harry. As for Dudley, well, Dudley didn't really need an excuse to beat him up. But he might tell his parents, and so Harry kept quiet.

The man didn't answer, but only continued to stare at him as if he were an animal at the zoo that Dudley had visited with the school. At least, that's what Harry thought it was like; his permission form was never signed, and so he had spent the day in the library, reading.

"Are you a god?" He hadn't meant to ask that; the words just came tumbling out of his mouth, tripping over one another in their haste to be heard. The man laughed. Harry blushed, biting his lower lip.

"You're quite precocious, aren't you, wereling?" Harry didn't know what precocious meant, or wereling. He shrugged in embarrassment. It wouldn't be wise to ask what he meant. Grown-ups always expected you to know. It wasn't polite to ask questions, and Harry had already made that mistake twice.

"I am sorry," he said, hoping that the strange man wouldn't leave. Harry liked him, despite what he had seen and what had happened. And the man hadn't denied that he was a god, either. Perhaps he was. Not a god like Uncle Vernon's, not a sanitary and boring god, but one of the old ones, the magical ones. The ones he wasn't supposed to talk about, the ones that Uncle Vernon said didn't exist at all because magic wasn't real.

Harry frowned, chewing his lip again and wrinkling his nose in confusion. But then how did he do that?

For the second time, the words left his mouth without warning. The man just smiled, an almost fond smile. No one ever looked at Harry like that. Aunt Petunia gazed at Dudley like that, smiling proudly at his photos on the mantel. There weren't any photos of Harry, and Aunt Petunia would likely have scowled at them if there were. But it felt nice, that look.

"Perhaps we should start at the beginning. I am Tyr med Ulfhednar." He bowed, and his cloak swung to one side. Harry gasped at the man, at Tyr. His right arm ended at the elbow. Tyr followed his gaze; he grimaced at the sight. "Even after twenty odd years, it still manages to shock me. You're fortunate that you've all your limbs after last night. Even so, I expect you'll have a nasty scar."

Still staring at the truncated limb, Harry nervously pulled the bandage wrapped around his own arm tighter. "I already have a nasty scar," he informed Tyr, echoing Aunt Petunia's words. Personally, he both liked and disliked his scar; it certainly looked wicked, but it set him apart as well.

"Aye, and both of those wounds will mark you for life. You're one of us now, wereling." Tyr kneeled beside Harry, laying his left arm- his whole arm- across the small boy's shoulders. Harry froze, unsure of what to do. He had never been touched like this before. Slowly, he relaxed. He could trust Tyr.

"What's a wereling?" he asked, hoping that, as Tyr had not scolded him for any of his previous questions, that it would be alright to ask.

"Wereling," Tyr began, adopting a lecturing tone like Harry's teacher, "is an affectionate turn for a young were creature, such as yourself." Harry opened his mouth to ask what a were creature was, but Tyr had anticipated, and continued with a smile. "Were creatures are therianthropes, and you and I are lycanthropes." At Harry's confused look, he added a single word, one that Harry actually understood. "Werewolves."

Harry stiffened, pushing the arm off his shoulders and scuttling away. He whirled around to face Tyr, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes. "You're a... I'm a... monster?" he demanded. His face crumpled as he spoke, his voice rising in pitch. His tears followed through on their threat and plummeted to the ground.

"Not a monster, Harry. Never a monster. This is a gift, Harry, not a curse. I won't tell you that it will be easy, that everything will be okay now. I won't lie to you. If you want others to treat you without their ignorant prejudices, you will have to hide what you are. But you'll have the pack, and you'll have me." Tyr picked Harry off the ground, cradling the small boy to his chest.

"Werewolves aren't real!" Harry cried out. "Magic isn't real, and I'm not a bad boy, I'm not a freak, and I don't want to go to hell! I'm not a werewolf!" His fists pounded against Tyr, but the short man refused to release him. "Let me go! You're lying. I'm not a werewolf, and you don't want me, so don't pretend that you do! No one wants me." He couldn't see, could barely hear. His eyes were full of tears, and his head was beginning to pound, and all he knew was that surely this couldn't be true. He continued to struggle, beginning to kick with his bare feet. Tyr just held him all the tighter, an admirable feat for a one-armed man.

"No, no, no! I wanted to be special, and I wanted to be loved, but I didn't want this. Why, why, why? Magic isn't real, werewolves aren't real, you're not real!" He stopped shouting, then, and gave into his sobbing, head falling against Tyr's shoulder. The werewolf rubbed his back in soothing circles, telling him that it was going to be okay, that everything would be fine.

After some time, Harry calmed down; the only disturbance was an occasional sniffle or hiccup. Tyr carefully rearranged the boy so that he could see his face. "I want you to listen to me, okay, Harry?" he began, waiting for the small boy's nod before continuing. "I don't know what happened to you, not all of it, but I do know this. You are a very special little boy. Magic is quite real, as are werewolves."

"When... you turned... into a grown-up... I thought... you were... a god... like... in the stories..." Harry shuddered, and buried his face once more into Tyr's left shoulder. "And... it didn't matter... that you'd... bi... bit me... because you were a god and you were going to take... take me away... from Aunt Petunia and Unc... Uncle Vernon..."

"I'm no god, Harry. But I will take you away. The relationship between you and I is a strong one, now that I've bitten you. I'll be like your father."

Apparently, that was the right thing to say, for Harry's eyes shone as his head shot up immediately. "Really? Really, really? I don't have a father, and you'll be mine? Are you sure? No one else wants me, or even likes me much."

"Of course I'm sure. I bit you for a reason, Harry. I've watched you for a week, and I've never met a kinder, sweeter boy. Your aunt and uncle are wrong, wereling. I know of a great many people who want you, and I'm glad that I was the one who got you." His eyes flickered oddly as he said this, but Harry was much too caught up in his joy to notice.

"Everything's going to be perfect now, isn't it?" Harry declared with a child's enthusiasm. Tyr smiled sadly.

"Not quite, wereling. But things will be better, I promise you that."

And Harry, long content with whatever scraps of love or hope he could find, nodded in contentment as the two set off.


Vanargand. Harry rolled the word about on his tongue, whispering it over and over again. Vanargand was going to be his home, where he would live with the rest of the werewolf pack. It was a rambling old building which looked as if had been continuously added to over centuries. There were Gothic arches and Doric columns and even a section that seemed to be made of mud.

Tyr, holding his hand, led him inside. It was bright and airy, with high ceilings and lots of windows. Harry liked it immediately. He peered about in curiosity. There didn't seem to be much furniture, if any at all. There weren't even any real doors, just openings between one room and the next. It was all very strange, and very different from the Dursleys.

"Doesn't look like much," a tall black man growled, wiping his hands on his jeans as he entered the room. He wasn't wearing a shirt. "He's not much more than a mere speck of a boy. How'd he do it, y'reckon?"

Tyr shot the man a glare, moving his hand to squeeze Harry's shoulder. "I don't think Fenrir would want you talking to him about that. I know I don't." The man did something strange then, cocking his head to one side and tilting it back. Tyr snapped his teeth once, savagely, and led Harry further into the house.

There were other people, lounging about on cushions or leaning against the walls. Harry wasn't sure how many there were, or what they looked like, really. But they all watched him with curiously yellow eyes, and Harry felt himself looking right back.

They finally came to a small room, which somehow seemed different from all of the others. There was a single man here, lounging on the ground as if it were a throne. He had long, long grey hair and the yellow eyes that Harry was slowly becoming used to seeing. Harry stared at the man, before realizing his rudeness. He lowered his eyes.

"Already taught him, have you Tyr?" the man growled, moving languidly to his feet. He turned to Harry, flashing him a grin that was all sharp teeth. "Smart boy, to submit before the Alpha." Harry stumbled back a bit as the man advanced, looking around frantically for Tyr. The other werewolf had moved to stand quietly in the corner, watching the scene intently. Harry tripped, falling onto his back with a loud gasp. He quickly pushed himself up off the ground, trying to find what it was that he had tripped over.

A bone.

Harry's eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet, whirling about to run out of the opening in the wall behind him. Faster than he could have thought possible, Tyr was there, blocking the way. Harry shot him a betrayed glance.

"I told you that this wasn't going to be perfect, wereling. You're not human anymore, so you'd best stop acting like it." Tyr pushed him gently on the shoulder. "You're no fool; figure it out for yourself. I'm not here to be your nursemaid."

Harry turned back to the other man, drawing a deep breath and setting his shoulders. "Are you going to eat me?" he asked, voice shaking. "I don't think I'd taste very good."

"Oh, but I disagree," the other told him, moving his face so that he and Harry were nearly nose to nose. "Humans taste so delicious, especially the little boys. I just love children." He raised an eyebrow at Harry, daring him to disagree. One sharp tooth nearly bit into his lip.

"I'm not human anymore," Harry argued. The Dursleys hadn't been very nice to him, but they didn't scare him like this man. He felt like his stomach was continually dropping out of his body, only to reappear again and repeat the process. "I'm a lyc-lycan..." Harry gave up. "A werewolf."

The man laughed, but Harry wasn't sure if that was good or not. It sounded unpleasant, like Uncle Vernon's harsh guffaws whenever he made a joke at Harry's expense. Harry was suddenly very sure that, whether or not he was eaten, he did not like this man.

"That you are, Harry Potter." Harry gasped, and the man showed another toothy grin. "Oh, I know who are, Harry." The way his name was said made Harry uncomfortable. It was nothing like the way his teacher at school said it, without any emotion, or the way that Tyr said it, with affection. No, this was a crooning, mocking, scary way of saying it. "I know all about your past and that lovely scar on your forehead."

Harry reached a hand up to trace the outline. "From the car crash?" he asked, fear momentarily forgotten.

The man laughed again, sending shivers up Harry's spine. "You don't get a scar like that from a stupid muggle contraption, boy. That's what you get when you're hit with a dark, dark spell."

"Magic isn't real!" Harry proclaimed, feeling as if he had said this at least a hundred times. "Uncle Vernon told me so. Besides, I don't even know who you are, so I don't believe a word that you say."

"Smart boy," the man repeated, snapping his jaws a mere centimetre from Harry's nose. Harry flinched back, running into Tyr. "Very well. I am Fenrir Greyback med Ulfhednar. And when I say that your scar was caused by a spell, you should listen." His yellow eyes flashed, and Harry was strongly reminded of the wolf that Tyr had been. "You are going to learn your place. Don't correct me. Ever."

Harry copied the gesture of the other werewolf earlier, twisting his head to the side. He froze in that position, hoping that he was doing the right thing. Tyr had seemed mad at the other man, but when he had done this, Tyr had stopped. Maybe it would work with Mr. Greyback, too.

"Such a clever, clever boy. I don't think I will eat you after all." Harry started to relax. "Yet." He froze again, wanting to glare at the man, but afraid of the consequences. "You'd best obey me, pup, because I could always change my mind." Harry nodded, lowering his eyes.

"Perhaps you should explain it to him, Greyback," Tyr suggested meekly, his hand gripping Harry's shoulder again, like he had seen Uncle Vernon do to Dudley whenever he was proud of him. Was Tyr proud of him? Whatever for?

"I was just getting to that," Mr. Greyback growled. "You, dear Harry, are a wizard. Which means you can do magic. Which means that magic is real." He paused here, but Harry didn't say anything. Mr. Greyback smiled again, and this time there were less teeth. "Back when you were nothing but a mere snack-"

"A baby," Tyr translated, lowering his eyes at the other's furious glare.

"-a small, absolutely delicious snack, a wizard by the name of Voldemort came and killed off your pathetic parents. And he tried to kill you, but something happened. And you got that scar. And we got hunted down to near extermination." Harry didn't say anything, but he knew he looked confused.

"The government doesn't like us werewolves much. Seems to think that we're a danger," he crooned, those sharp teeth that Harry could imagine tearing into his skin flashing again. "This wizard, the one who killed your parents, he was making things better for the lot of us. But you had to go and ruin it all." There was real fury in his voice now, in his eyes. This was not the simple anger he had shown before; it was much worse. Harry's stomach disappeared altogether, and didn't come back.

"The rest of those bloody wizards seem to think that you're their precious savior. The Boy-Who-Lived, they call you. Right famous, you are. But now, you're a werewolf. Do you know what that means, pup?" Harry shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he, Harry Potter, waste of space and freak, was famous.

"It means, of course, that you're going to do your damn best to see that werewolves start earning the respect they deserve. You cost us, and now you're going to pay us back again." Harry nodded; that seemed fair. That was what his life had been like with the Dursleys, after all: Harry repaying them for taking care of him with chores.

"Good boy," the werewolf snarled, running his long nails along Harry's cheek. "Perhaps you'll be worth all the trouble after all. And Lord Voldemort will certainly be... pleased."

"But Mr. Greyback-" Harry began, only to be stopped by the other's sudden movement. The alpha werewolf stopped caressing Harry's cheek, and backhanded him soundly. His long, sharp nails left scratches in his skin, and Harry could feel the blood welling up from the cuts.

"I am not Mr. Greyback," he growled, drawing out his own name in a mocking drawl. "I am Fenrir. And pups don't get to ask questions." This man reminded Harry far too much of Uncle Vernon, even though they physically could not have appeared more differently.

"Yes, sir," Harry answered contritely, "I'm sorry, sir. I won't do it again, please don't hit me." Harry raised his hands to cover his head, for whatever he said, he was sure that he would be cuffed soundly.

"Whatever those humans did, they did teach you your manners." Slowly, Harry lowered his arms. Fenrir was looking at him with an odd look that Harry couldn't quite decipher. "But I don't hit people unless they deserve it. You obey me, pup, and you won't be hit."

"Oh," Harry stated sadly. "I won't eat, then?" He did his best to make it not sound like a question, but his voice rose in pitch at the end, anyway.

"Whoever told you such nonsense, pup? We're not monsters; you'll eat your fill regardless of your behaviour. It's not right to starve someone for being an idiot."

"Thank you!" Harry cried, launching himself at the older werewolf. "I promise I'll be a good boy, and do whatever you want, just so long as you let me eat, and don't hit me too much, and don't lock me in the cupboard!"

Fenrir stiffened at the sudden movement and the feel of the small body pressed tightly to his. "I don't think you're in much of a position to negotiate," he finally managed, trying to disengage the boy. Harry let go immediately, lowering his eyes to the floor once more. "Save your weakling affections for Tyr. He actually seems to like you." He said this with a curl of his lip, as if doubting that anyone could like Harry.

"Yes, sir." Harry turned to leave, only to be hauled back by the scruff of his neck.

"Did I say you could leave?" Fenrir barked, bringing the boy up to peer into his face and shaking him slightly. Harry mouthed a 'no', but could not bring himself to actually speak. "Why the hell are your eyes green? Tyr, you did bite him, didn't you?" The look on his face promised fierce retribution if the answer was no.

"Yes, Fenrir. I don't know why his eyes are green."

"They'vealways been green," Harry interjected before the alpha could say anything.

"Killing curse green," Fenrir muttered, eyes distant as he cuffed Harry for his insolence. "You're just fool of bloody surprises, pup. You'd better not be more trouble than you're worth. Although," he added, leering at Harry in a way the boy most certainly did not appreciate, "you would be such a delectable little morsel." Harry shivered, promising himself that he would do everything in his power not to end up as food.


The transformation to a werewolf hadn't hurt nearly as much as he had thought it would. He had been scared when Tyr explained to him that he would transform that night, as the moon would still be full for another two days. But mostly, he was excited. In his wolf form, he followed along in Tyr's wake, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He skipped about, sniffing at everything, pushing his nose into holes in the ground and jumping over tangled roots.

Tyr, a small brown wolf, would circle around behind him every few minutes, nudging him with his nose, urging him on. Harry didn't know what was going to happen, but Fenrir had grinned when he told Tyr to bring Harry to Yggdrasil.

The pair came to a stop in front of a gargantuan tree. It was old, almost old enough that Harry felt as if it had a mind of its own, though he could have just been imagining that. A writhing nest of serpents slithered around its exposed roots.

Harry's ears perked up. This was new, and interesting. He wondered what they were doing there.

"It issss the werewolvesss, masster," something hissed. Harry stopped, his left forepaw raised in the air. Who was talking? A large snake, larger than all the rest by far, slowly uncoiled itself from the center of the pile, rising carefully so that it was able to come face to face with Tyr.

A large grey wolf slunk out from behind the tree, and the snake instantly turned to him.

"Fenrir Greyback," the snake acknowledged, tongue flickering out of his mouth. Since when could snakes speak? But then, Harry reasoned, just yesterday he hadn't believed in werewolves or magic either. He supposed it all made sense.

Fenrir didn't answer the emerald snake, but instead pushed Harry forward so that he was almost cross-eyed from looking at the snake right in front of his nose. Harry pricked his ears forward, more in curiosity than fear, and looked at the snake.

"Harry Potter," the snake greeted. "It hasss been ssso long."

"Sssorry,"Harry responded, surprised to hear it come out as a low hiss, "do I know you?"

The snake reared back, and Harry lowered his head to the ground, tail up in the air. Was the snake going to bite him? "You ssspeak?" He sounded completely shocked. "A werewolf ssshould not be able to ssspeak the sssnake tongue."

"I've never heard a sssnake ssspeak either," Harry answered, a bit indignant. He bared his teeth, half in play, and half in warning. "Perhapsss it isss magic."

"It isss that. You pleassse me greatly, Harry Potter. I am Lord Voldemort."

Harry shivered, curling his tail around his legs and tilting his head to the side. "I am sssorry to have tried to defeat you, Lord Voldemort. I wisssh I could do sssomething to make it up to you." Hopefully he was doing the right thing. After all, he was a werewolf now, and Fenrir had said that Lord Voldemort protected werewolves.

"Perhapsss you can. But for now, be a good little sssnake and lisssten to Fenrir."

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed eagerly. Tyr had taken him away from the Dursleys, and brought him into this world of magic, even if he hadn't really seen any yet, besides the transformation and talking snakes. Tyr followed Fenrir, and Fenrir followed Voldemort, so he resolved to do the same.

"Disssmissssssed." The snake buried down into the mass of wriggling serpents and disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.

Harry grinned and wagged his tail, pleased with himself. He turned around to share his triumph with Tyr, only to find both him and Fenrir staring at him with tails hooked forward and their ears flat against their skulls.


"He shouldn't be able to do that!" Fenrir raged, amber eyes flashing dangerously.

"His eyes shouldn't be green either," Tyr pointed out calmly. "But they are."

"It is physically impossible for a wolf to produce the hisses required to speak Parseltongue!"

"It is physically impossible for a human to do so as well, yet that is, if not necessarily accepted, at least known to be possible."

"I'm sorry," Harry piped up from where he was crouched on the floor, eyes wide. "I didn't know I was doing anything wrong; I thought that you could do it too! I thought that I could speak to another animal because I was one. I won't do it again, I promise!" He was trembling, both from the exhaustion of the full moon and in fear.

"Shh, wereling," Tyr comforted. "You didn't do anything wrong. Parseltongue, the ability to speak to serpents, is a rare gift. It is shocking that you are able to do so at all, much less when you are not human."

"What did he say to you?" Fenrir demanded, snarling at Harry. "And it had better be good. I missed my dinner last night because of you, and I amhungry. You could easily be a substitute."

Harry gulped. "He said hello to you, and then to me, and then he asked how I could speak, but I didn't know either, and I apologized for killing him when I was a baby, and told him I'd try to make it up to him, and then he said that perhaps I could, and then he said to go! That's it, really!"

"You apologized to the Dark Lord for killing him? I'm not sure whether or not to congratulate you for bravery or cuff you for your stupidity." Fenrir paced, the movement strangely wolf-like, even though he was only on two legs.

"I won't do it again, if I'm not supposed to. I don't want to be in trouble. I just thought... that he might want to hurt me for hurting him, and you said he helped werewolves, and I am one know, and that means that he should protect me too and I didn't want him to be mad at me and hit me like Uncle Vernon so I apologized and I'm sorry!" At the end of this, Harry had to stop and heave great lungfuls of air; he had spoken very rapidly and without pausing for a breath.

"I think that's enough of an initiation to the pack for anyone, Fenrir. Perhaps we need not test the boy further. His loyalty is quite strong."

Fenrir ignored Tyr, instead focusing on Harry. "Listen, and listen well. I don't like you. But you're a part of the pack, and the Dark Lord has accepted you. Perhaps you'll be able to prove me wrong. Perhaps not. Either way, you put one paw over the line, and I'll see to it that you wished Voldemort had succeeded in killing you. That clear?" Harry nodded, eyes wide. Fenrir was scary, really scary.

"But," he said after a moment, his mouth open in what could have been a smile but probably wasn't, "I do think you've done quite enough to become a pack member. Welcome to the pack, Harry med Ulfhednar."

He placed a single dogrose in Harry's hands, spun about abruptly, and left. Harry stared at the flower, wondering what it meant, and if he even really wanted to know.


Dogrose: Pleasure and pain