Michael Grey’s eyes were drooping. Half asleep, the tall man was now walking purely out of instinct. His feet thumped steadily against the moist loamy ground, but he was completely unaware of the dark, quiet forest around him.
“Mmmph.” Michael started back into consciousness as he walked head-on into the scarred, thick trunk of an ancient oak tree. Grabbing onto the rough bark for balance, Michael waited for his son’s laughter to greet this foolish blunder. However, it never came.
It took Michael a moment to realize that Fenn was not with him. Slowly, the smile slid off of the man’s handsome face... Fenrir was nowhere in sight. Forcing himself to remain calm, Michael drew his slender wooden wand and spun slowly in place
“Fenn?” His voice was hoarse and quiet in the bitter darkness. “Come out, son... This is no time for games.”
Silence. Michael felt his neck prickling uncomfortably as the deathly quiet seemed to grow thicker... more solid, somehow. His breath catching in his throat, Michael raised his wand high. “Lumos.”
The wand tip sparkled into light, illuminating the dark forest that seemed to be closing in around him. Somehow, as Michael had dozed, everything around him had become sinister: the warped trees leaning down toward him, the hiss of the wind through their leaves... Feeling a horrible sense of deja vu, a deep-rooted feeling of terror somewhere in the pit of his stomach, Michael turned to face a particularly malevolent patch of undergrowth…
And that was when he heard the howl.
It was a deep howl, a throaty howl, one laced with venom, danger, and pure wildness in the same breath. It was an unearthly and horrifying sound... yet somehow, it was mysteriously beautiful. Michael stood rooted to the spot, petrified, unable to believe what was happening...
Although, he knew by now exactly what tonight was. Michael’s head moved up in slow motion to stare at the starry black sky. What he saw did not surprise him, but he could never have guessed how it would change so many lives....
It was the full moon.
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Michael allowed himself one moment, one brief, fleeting moment, to let the dread sink in. When that moment was over, the tall man launched into action. Plunging head first into the dense undergrowth, Michael plowed his way in the direction of the howl; oblivious to the branches and thorns scratching his face, unaware of the roots that seemed to reach up and snare his legs, tripping him time after time... Michael fought onwards, toward the sound of the howl. He had heard a yell in that direction, a yell he knew to have been Fenrir’s. He couldn’t let this happen... He couldn’t
Several agonizing moments later, Michael reached the little forest clearing. Puffing like a bull, Michael raised his wand and looked back and forth, mentally willing his son to reveal himself. On the far end of the clearing, the moonlight glimmered off a trickling creek. And there, there at the water’s edge, was a sight to chill the bones of any father.
A wolf, a massive, matted, rangy grey wolf, was bearing down on a fallen teenage boy. Fenn’s eyes were wide with horror, one hand still clutching at his broken wrist. The boy’s sandy hair was wet with sweat and clinging to his ashen face, but the wolf clearly did not care. Its yellow eyes were gleaming in horrible anticipation, and its massive yellow fangs were bared, eager to sink into their victim.
For a moment Michael stood there, rooted to the spot in terror--but of a sudden, all his paternal instincts kicked in. With a guttural roar of rage, Michael bounded across the clearing and leaped toward the werewolf, his wand and all magic forgotten as he yelled out in panic to his son.
“Fenn, run!”
Michael bowled straight into the wolf, knocking the massive beast clean off its feet. Its fur felt tangled and coarse beneath Michael’s hands reeking of blood and fear. As Michael hurled the creature bodily away from himself and his son, the man staggered forward, unable to control his momentum.
As Michael hit the ground hard, he knew he was about to die. He felt a strange sort of calm overtake him; he would not die like this, stretched out on the ground like a helpless doe. No, he would die a proud stag, fiercely fighting this horrible beast until the end. Saying a silent prayer for Fenrir and for Heidi, Michael hauled himself upright and turned to face his doom.
Michael had expected to find himself face to face with the angry wolf, but found himself confronted with a sight much worse. His son, his beloved Fenrir, lay stretched out on the damp mossy ground, bloodied and unconscious. The wolf was howling in pleasure, its paws and muzzle stained red.
Michael didn’t know why the wolf had decided to attack his son instead of him, but it no longer mattered. It was too late. Alive or dead, Fenn’s life had been ruined. But Michael was still driven by the desperate, all-consuming need to save his son. Spotting his wand buried in the muddy ground a few meters away, Michael seized it and turned to where the wolf stood, still howling its triumph to the shining full moon.
Somehow, in his mind, the father knew what to do. Still immersed in the strange, surreal calm that had overtaken him, Michael raised his wand and watched as the wolf lowered its jaws, ready to bite again at Fenrir’s exposed neck.
“Expecto Patronum!"
A mighty silver stallion erupted from Michael’s wand tip. Charging the wolf, the Patronus reared up in midair, its insubstantial hooves cleaving and flailing above the wolf’s head. With fear shining in its savage yellow eyes, the werewolf turned on its heels and fled, its narrow back curving and undulating as it ran.
Michael Grey remained standing momentarily, his right arm still raised--and shaking with exhaustion. Wiping blood and sweat from his eyes, Michael staggered over to where his son lay. “Fenn...”
Michael collapsed on the ground next to him. Chest heaving, the man placed his hand gently in front of his son’s mouth, hoping, feeling. Nothing.
Numb dread was rising like bile in Michael’s throat. His son, his only son, he couldn’t be--
Michael cried out in relief as he felt Fenn’s weak breath against his hand, soft and insubstantial but reassuringly present. To weary to Apparate, Michael seized a large river pebble in his hand and muttered, “Portus.”
Moments later, the little forest clearing was empty and peaceful once again. The only reminder of the life-changing struggle that had taken place mere moments before was the torn-up, bloody ground and the little stream that continued to run red many hours later.
Author's Note: Sorry this one's short (I was originally planning a longer one) but it's just how it turned out. =) I decided to write it in Michael's point of view, so I hope you enjoyed--don't worry, it'll be back to dear old Fenn in the next chapter.
Also, I'm very pleased to say that I have an absolutely stunning new character banner for my OC, who you'll be meeting in (most likely) Chapter 7. I've decided to put it up early as a teaser for y'all (=P), so be sure to check it out!