The Wolf and the Cub
Peter Hale was not a patient man.
He was a predator, a strategist. He watched, waited, and calculated.
And right now, his focus was on Harry Potter.
The pack had noticed the new arrival immediately. Not just because he was different—which he was—but because of his scent.
Harry smelled like home.
It was infuriating. It made no sense.
Werewolves were territorial, and the moment the pack caught wind of Harry, something in them shifted. They didn't just want to watch him; they needed to protect him.
Even Peter, who prided himself on his control, found himself irritated when Harry wandered alone at night, when strangers got too close to him, when Scott—fucking Scott—glared at him like he wanted to tear him apart.
Scott hated Harry, though no one could figure out why.
The kid barely interacted with them, yet every time Scott caught sight of him, his eyes flashed red, his posture tense.
Jealousy? Mistrust? Peter didn't particularly care.
What he did care about was the fact that Scott was becoming increasingly hostile.
And Harry, for all his apparent obliviousness, was growing more prickly by the day.
He was all sharp retorts and dry sarcasm, an adorable little menace wrapped in too-big sweaters and an attitude that said I will hex you into next week if you so much as look at me wrong.
Peter found it amusing.
The pack found it endearing.
Scott found it infuriating.
And when Scott finally snapped—when he lunged at Harry one night outside the café—he learned, very quickly, just how big of a mistake he had made.