Once a Wolf

Canto One: The Dark Wood of Error
Section 2

"There is a beast in man that should be exercised, not exorcised."
--Anton Szandor LaVey

Chapter 2

The man sat on the opposite end of the room yet Constantin Korzha could smell his foul stench as if he were beside him. It was a powerfull combination of ignorance and arrogance that nauseated Constantin so that the glowering man held his breath at intervals. No-one else in the crowded pub was inconvenienced by the smell but Constantin's olfactory senses were far more acute than that of the others present. His profession demanded that of him.

Constantin was a sciential hunter. He needed to be completely aware of his surroundings: how it all smelt, how everything looked in the minutest detail, how it sounded and tasted. These traits, companioned with immense patience and vigilance, were essential for a killer such as him. It all paid off as nearly every night for a month he trailled the man rendezvousing with his mistress at this seedy pub.

A hunter knowing the habits of his prey was a necessity. After spending several nights pursuing him, Constantin knew all there was to know about Elias Wedgewood. He knew that Wedgewood begged for a coronary by consuming ham and eggs each morning. He knew Wedgewood preferred to be driven to the Ministry of Magic where he worked as Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He was aware that quite often the aged wizard had, at minimum, a single Auror around as a bodyguard. Constantin was also aware that the man two tables from Wedgewood was his current Auror escort; whether or not the man was conscious of the impending threat lurking in the corner, Constantin did not know for certain.

Wedgewood's body held an odd odour that was a sour blend of spices both sharp and sweet in addition to the aforementioned stench. It worsened Constantin's pending nausea and was tantamount to the foulness of funeral bouquets. It was an unmistakeable form of identification that made his eyes water and sinuses swell.

Try to hide your foetid smell of wickedness! Constantin thought, his eyes narrowed. I can still smell you for what you are!

"Another drink, sir?" a sultry voice inquired.

The sudden question beside him neither startled nor pulled Constantin's hardened gaze from his prey. His senses, ever trenchant, alerted him of the serving wench's presence before she spoke.

"Yes," he responded without anything more.

Only when the zaftig witch parted from his company did his eyes momentarily snatch a look at her plump backside. She was the complete opposite of his own lover but still pleasant to gaze upon. This was a female who knew the importance of fattening herself for the winter rather than starve for vanity's sake. But then his own female could not help that they did not have enough to eat so she was forced into her slim frame whether she wanted to be or not.

Constantin's eyes shifted back to Wedgewood who was being joined by his paramour, a dark haired young girl barely over eighteen. She could have been accepted as the older man's daughter had she not taken her designated place upon his lap and kissed his lips with arms slung around his neck.

The hunter released a discreet growl of objection. Was anything sacred to this immoral bastard? He deserved to die. His taste in women was only the beginning of a long list of Wedgewood's offences. The motive for hunting Wedgewood ran far deeper than his love interests, for he was a main deployer of Anti-Werewolf Legislation. Constantin was a werewolf.

Wedgewood's frequent, out-spoken anti-werewolf demonstrations fuelled the Wizarding world with abundant excuses to oppress and destroy whichever being the man led them to believe was unfit for society, be it werewolf or not. He particularly targeted werewolves because of some story he fabricated about his best friend who was attacked and killed by one in front of him during a childhood camping trip. Right before his very eyes, he claimed to have witnessed the monstrous behaviour of the beast he came to later tyrannise.

Werewolves understood that Wedgewood's story was propaganda invented to rile the masses against them, that they were pawns in the echelon of Ministry promotions. His political trumpery cited examples abound of werewolves' impulsive dementia not just during the full moon but at other times: the young teen who physically assaulted students in the school yard which made it unlawfull for werewolves to attend classes, the woman who attacked and accidentally killed someone as she tried to steal fruit from the market which caused a law to pass stating that werewolves must be terminated when they kill for any reason, even if it is out of necessity. There were various laws regarding employment as well: despite a werewolf's weakened state post-transformation, he must report to work and perform his job satisfactorily or be sacked, a werewolf must inform an employer of his lycanthropic condition even though it would risk discrimination and/or loss of job, a werewolf should never be allowed employment around children...the list seemed endless.

Constantin deliberated on these things, the rancor of injustice a bitter bile on his tongue. The newspapers always told half-truths. The teen in the school yard fought single-handedly against six others who made an attempt on his life after they learned his secret. He was punished for an innate act of survival, a reaction anyone else would also have. The woman at market nicked the apples to feed herself after being rendered penniless, losing her job for taking too much time off in recuperation from the full moon.

These things were not the fault of the werewolf parties, but each served to pass censorious legislation against their kind. These laws were obscene excuses to further enslave and persecute his people. The few werewolves who strove to remain in Wizarding society felt the direct contention of those laws. The majority grew discouraged and decided to try their luck in the Muggle world where their existence passed as fable, or wandered away to live as feral recluses, mingling only among other werewolves. All werewolves, regardless of their choice in which world to partake in, were affected by the Anti-Werewolf Legislation created by Dolores Umbridge in early 1993.

Constantin and his pack walked both sides of the line. They chose to remove themselves from the world, concealled in an Unplottable location in the wilds of Britain, still keeping abreast of all extraneous activities involving werewolves. But they needed to remain one step ahead of their enemies. To do so meant that they also needed to be strategically placed in their midst, play their charade, and obtain vital information which would prove imperative for their operations.

Notwithstanding his want to rebuke both wizard and Muggle society, Constantin took pleasure in intruding on their worlds, penetrating their most impervious defences to learn their secrets. His mètier as a hunter/spy enabled him to also pursue his favourite pastimes: stalking and terrorising. Both proved to have merit for the cause as Constantin, in his chase of Wedgewood, overheard a most curious discussion in the very same pub he now sat in.

That particular night, mid-way through the month, he was lucky enough to overhear a conversation between Wedgewood and his favourite crony Dolores Umbridge. The deplorable pair was muttering about an old crackpot wizard named Albus Dumbledore who kept insisting that the Dark Wizard Voldemort was again rising to power. Constantin, still sober enough to understand the magnitude of what he'd overheard, reelled at the possibility.

As a general note, he distrusted wizards despite of who they were but he also knew that Voldemort offered werewolves freedom in exchange for loyalty in his struggle to purify the Wizarding world's blood. During Voldemort's first rise and before Constantin was bitten, the Korzhas were a prominent pureblood family living in the stranglehold of Nicolae Ceausescu's communist reign. The entire Korzha family adamently supported Voldemort from their far-off Rumanian land. Werewolves took up arms and battled alongside their leader in a promise for a better tomorrow. Always fascinated by the Dark Arts, the young Constantin took particular interest in the war.

As it went, Voldemort was thwarted and annihilated by an enigmatic youngster barely over a year old. While the Wizarding world rejoiced at his defeat, Constantin was confounded that a mere child could destroy the greatest Dark wizard who ever lived. The Korzha family quietly mourned the loss. Constantin took a more extreme approach.

After the disappointing outcome, the despondent eldest child and heir to the Korzha family completed his education at Durmstrang then turned his back to the Wizarding world, seeking work with a different type of evil. Constantin was only eighteen when he substituted Voldemort with Ceausescu, becoming a revered interrogator for the dictator when he was handpicked by the fiend himself after Ceausescu witnessed him torturing a random, hapless victim in an alley. The human monster saw a ripe sadist waiting to be tapped into within the youngster. Countless people were put to death because Constantin pointed an accusatory finger at them. He happily lost all contact with the Wizarding world but relished in utilising his magic to torment his hapless Muggle victims.

As it were, Ceausescu was not the only one who kept an eye on the young man. Everything changed the night he was attacked and bitten at the ripe age of twenty. His newly acquired disease involuntarily shoved him back into the fold of that world which he left behind, only to then be shunned by it. This new development came with terrible anxieties: the werewolves on the losing end of the war reaped the rewards of life sentences in the Werewolf Detainment Unit of Azkaban or torturous, drawn-out executions. It was a terrible dilemma for a new pup to face.

As any responsible child would do, he exiled himself into the mountainous regions of Wallachia with his werewolf maker, not wanting his family to suffer the reprimand and scorn of the community. He had obligations to a new family now.

You want to make a difference, boy? If you aren't part of the solution, you're part of the problem!

Constantin shuddered whenever those words that ripped him from all he knew popped back into his mind like the strangling vines of creeping ivy. They were spoken to him long ago by a visitor to his country: the werewolf who made him.

It was without question that Constantin would take interest in what he overheard inside the pub. The rumoured new rise of Voldemort would no doubt send a flummoxed Wizarding world scrambling for verification. As of yet, there was still no confirmation of the return; nevertheless, Constantin brought the tidings back to his pack who tensed then sent him out again to uncover more information. Dare they hope that Voldemort's proposed return would propell them into a better social standing? Would it be impetuous for them to hope that the injustice their ilk was burdened with be vindicated?

It was elementary that both Voldemort and his adversaries would lobby the werewolves heavily to persuade them on their side. Each would guarantee equality and freedom, deliverance from poverty and persecution. Disgruntled packs would favour the Dark Lord; optimistic ones would go to the opposition. Still many would withdraw into obscurity, afraid to join either side or would wait to see who they could benefit from best.

All in all, Constantin did not trust any of them but he expected to carry on Korzha tradition and support Voldemort. He was a lowly subject playing a large role within a bigger, idealistic werewolf sovereign but he was also a rogue player with goals set for personal gain. His attitude was a role reversal of the intolerance the Wizarding world imposed upon werewolves. He met them with the same deeply entrenched revulsion that they pandered out to him. His reaction to them wasn't his fault. Wizards themselves infused it within him to be that way.

That was the serrated edge which werewolves found themselves sliding down. Since they reverted back to a more honest, natural form one night out of the month, they were treated like beasts at all other times. They were feared for physically becoming what every human being essentially was inside. Hypocrites! Every last one of them! Every man is an animal by truest nature; they were just better at pretending otherwise. So werewolves, a perfect balance of man and animal, suffered for it.

Constantin himself bore no patience for politics. He believed in a strong arm to crush his foes, to take advantage of every weak link. Politics were the superfluous red tape he had to cut through to get anything done and that sickened him. He was a man of action and had no time for bullshit. If someone stole from him, that someone's hand would be chopped off. If another insulted him or caused him harm, it was that person's head which got lopped off next.

The werewolf community continued to listen with irascible edginess as wizard politicians spouted brummagem speeches referencing how society needed protection from the fulsome Dark creatures who masqueraded as humanity. Werewolves were deprived of every fundamental human right through the new Anti-Werewolf Legislation: the right to employment, the right to have a voice in any and all matters, the right to be treated as an equal, the right to be fairly represented within the judicial system, the right to be educated and to use magic. Simply put, they were disarticulated from the right to exist.

Violations of those rights ran rampant as with each passing year the Werewolf Registry promulgated countless injunctions that further tightened the restraints on werewolves which, combined with new requirements, were impossible to meet. Public figures such as Elias Wedgewood and Dolores Umbridge blandished the Wizarding world, blowing blankets of smoke around their motives as they excused their prejudice with empirical tales backed by Wedgewood's infamous albeit redoutable studies on werewolf psychology.

What would the hatemonger know about the habits of those he oppressed? Constantin reflected upon this. It was not as if the politician lived among them to know their behaviours and customs. The Wizarding world was exceptionally nescient when it came to werewolves. There was no credible treatise to either clarify or explain them yet there were abundant texts fuelling the negative fire with pretentious slander based on folklore, superstition and old wives tales.

What did any of them prove when they rejected family and friends who became werewolves? They did not care to learn anything truthfull. It was easier to throw their loved ones away than it was to learn to deal with the tribulations of lycanthropy and this negligent waste of life and liberty made Constantin seethe with anger. As for his own family back in Wallachia, he opted to let them believe he was killed in the attack so there would be no backlash of having a werewolf for a son. There was no belief in his heart that the Korzhas would've alienated him but his choice was for their greater good.

Yet how could the public be expected to sympathise with werewolves when the Ministry remained proactive in isolating and separating them from their rights as a people? The crux of it was that once bitten, a new werewolf forfeits his or her humanity whether willingly or by force. With the war over, werewolves remained suspended in social inertia. Societal status was everything and werewolves were on the lowest rung of the ladder. Changes were for the worse in collective punishment for siding with Voldemort whether the individual did or not. Guilt was automatic for a werewolf.

Constantin's eyes narrowed at the insidious politician while he thought of the one time he was discarded as a werewolf. After divulging his secret to Ihrin Cardei, his childhood friend and girlfriend of three years, nothing could convince her to keep him. He missed her often and despised the insolent bastard responsible for taking her away from him, regardless of how indirect the thief's methods. The bastard sat with a harlot upon his knee and a wife waiting at home while Constantin yearned for what was lost to him. There would never be another love to compare with Ihrin. Not even his current mate who ran with him in the wilderness could quench his need completely.

Was it necessary for werewolves to lose all that mattered to them, all that was rightfully theirs? He choked back tears in recollection of a freshly bitten child left to die by his parents at the forest edge. Before he was discovered, the boy froze to death in the mid-January cold of last year. The pack placed the tiny victim on a pyre and sent his innocent soul to the netherworld where he hopefully found peace then mourned the anonymous child for a week as if he'd been one of their own. Sadly, the boy was not the first, nor would he be the last...all because of this cold-hearted brute and his revolting laws.

Constantin growled softly in his throat. He watched as Wedgewood swallowed the last of his bitter, slamming the stein down with a presiding clunk! that attracted more than the pensive werewolf's attention. The son of a bitch enjoyed each separate glance, savouring it as he passed a cocky grin to no-one in particular.

"I think we should retire for the evening," the werewolf heard Wedgewood mutter to his child mistress. "Don't you agree, Muffin?"

"I certainly do," the tart replied.

The girl - who Constantin knew was named Abigail Proctor - rose from her elder boyfriend's lap and in that instant locked eyes with him. His gaze was intense, refusing to drop as he seared holes straight through her. Like bait skewered on a hook she squirmed within his relentless stare and he was amused. When her lover stood and took her by the arm, he distracted her from the stranger in the dark corner.

"Ready then, Muffin?"

She nodded aimlessly and followed him out the door, the Auror trailling seconds later.

Constantin also left his chair, threw down a few coins for his bill then discreetly slipped outside in pursuit of his prey. He paused briefly to light a cigarette from the pack he kept in the left pocket of his coat, his eyes never straying from the figures walking ahead. He waited to put a good distance between them before he began his chase.

A frigid blast from Mother Nature's invisible fist punched him hard but the werewolf went unphased. His coat was long and woollen, fairly new and, like the money spent in the pub, stolen from a Muggle he robbed a few nights ago. His long dark hair helped insulate his neck and his own flesh was toughened by the deprivation a feral lifestyle bestowed upon him.

As he stalked his quarry, he moved with stealth acquired from skill, continuing undetected. Abigail "Muffin" Proctor, Constantin knew from passed observation, enjoyed taking walks regardless of weather conditions so the pampered Wedgewood was forced to comply. She did not live far, a short fifteen minute stroll from the pub they left, which was the reason why the establishment was a frequently chosen meeting place. The idea was to appease Wedgewood into not making a real fuss. Constantin smirked at the price his enemy paid for having a fit lover.

Rain now fell heavily; for this the werewolf was ingratiated. The sheets of water would be a wonderfull shield blurring him from sight. He had no fear of missing them for as long as he could follow Wedgewood's trademark stench he could not be lost.

Five minutes into the walk found the Auror halting, much to Constantin's dismay. The werewolf, too, halted and managed to go unseen as he slipped around a corner. Able to remove himself from view before the Auror turned, Constantin thought his intristic wolven senses were better than psychic.

"Wait, Mr Wedgewood," the Auror advised in a calm tone instiled by his own training.

"What is it now?" Wedgewood snarled testily.

"I think we're being followed. Perhaps we should stay closer together."

"Followed?" Did Constantin detect a hint of panic in the ancient wizard's voice? "Are you certain? Did you see any one?"

"No. But I didn't need to." Then lower: "I can feel it."

"Well, hurry along! We must make sure Miss Proctor arrives at her flat in safety."

The sense of urgency in Wedgewood's voice accelerated their walk after the Auror reluctantly deserted his search for the unseen nemesis. When Constantin turned back around the corner and picked up their trail, he noticed the arm Wedgewood possessively wrapped around his Muffin as well as the hand the Auror kept concealled inside his coat.

Constantin was unafraid for he too had a wand even though werewolves were not permitted to own or use one. The day he registered as a werewolf, the Werewolf Registry wanted to repossess the wand but he told them that it was lost in the forest during the attack. The idiots believed him too. It was nice to have available even though he preferred utilising his hunting ken. Use of magic was more appealling on unsuspecting Muggles.

He knew he would need magic against his enemy's bodyguard. The skills of the Auror impressed the werewolf. He looked forward to contesting them. The wizard was no neophyte; he knew he was being tracked without seeing or hearing traces of evidence. Here was a worthy opponent, one who was almost as cunning as he was. Almost.

Constantin wanted badly to put that to the test.

Detouring, the prowling werewolf navigated toward the back, rounding the next corner with thoughts of excited rage coursing through his mind. He acquired the feeling that the unsettled Auror intuitively halted and himself turned on his heels to check his notion of being followed. The werewolf was confident that the bodyguard missed him.

Once out of sight on the next block, he quickened his pace, his sinuous legs carrying him beyond the one set by his enemies. Luckily he knew where Muffin resided, a pearl of information ascertained from his nocturnal stalkings.

He reached the building then gazed up at the third storey window of her flat. It was not difficult to locate for it was the one with a jungle of house plants and a red tabby cat chewing on the leaves of one of them. A three-year feral life strengthened Constantin in more ways than sharpening his hunting skills, for it also gave his body the agility to perform physical acts that would've been written off as supernatural when in fact all it happened to be was his being more attuned with the wolf within. It was a primal gift enhanced by living naturally in spite of the constraints Wizarding society placed upon his kind, one of the benefits given to them unwittingly. Summoning the ever-present wolf, he jumped high enough to grab hold of the rusty fire escape ladder which he yanked down in an echoing, teeth-scraping screech then a loud bang.

A dog barked zealously in the distance, the cat inside Muffin's window gawked owl-eyed at him. He checked to see if any eye, wizard or Muggle, drew inquiring attention to him. Receiving his answer in the negative, Constantin began a speedy ascension of the ladder, depending on the lightless section of the street paired with his stealth to reach the destination undetected.

He made it!

He wrapped the wool muffler from his coat pocket around the knuckles of his clenched fist then punched through the window, sending the cat scuttling for cover. He knocked out as much glass as needed to enable him to crawl inside, knocking over pots of plants in his wake.

Crunch! Crunch!

The sound of broken glass crushing beneath his thick-soled boots made him wince as it contrasted the deafening silence and he briefly paused...untill he heard muffled voices and rattling keys being inserted into the lock of the front door. Heart pounding, he left the kitchen, raced through the living quarters where his prey would soon enter and dodged into the bedroom suite just as the door swung open. Now he was able to better understand their words as they stepped inside and the first voice he heard was that of his most detested enemy.

"Wait one moment, Muffin. Let Ajax go in first."

"Really, Elly!" The pout in her voice was loud and clear. "I'm sure everything is all right."

"Will you just let him go first, you daft bint!"

Constantin ducked into the wardrobe, tense muscles knotting his back and shoulders, preparing to spring when the time came. A single Auror was not going to bring him down regardless of his skills. Without the usual claque of cronies, Wedgewood was in the palm of his hand.

All conversation halted from the room while Ajax the Auror probed the flat for intruders. The broken window in the kitchen flashed through the predator's mind seconds before Ajax reported his discovery of it, warning Wedgewood and Muffin to keep back.

"I told you someone was following us," Ajax hissed as he passed Wedgewood and his girlfriend.

A succession of furtive footsteps rebounded in Constantin's ears as Ajax closed the gap.

Through the lounge...

Into the hallway...

The Auror was excellent at stalking but he was no match for Constantin. A classic case: an educated hunter versus a natural killer. The werewolf could hear the man's approach, smell his sour sweat.

Creeeeeak!

The hallway cupboard was being searched.

Constantin braced himself inside the wardrobe, shutting the door so only a narrow crack was left for him to monitor Ajax's progress.

A dark shadow crossed the threshold of the room before the Auror's hulking figure cautiously entered.

Constantin readied himself, fingers wrapped around his wand.

Ajax surveyed the room then began a search, beginning with the small cupboard across the room.

The hidden werewolf held his breath, wand gripped within a white-knuckled fist, waiting.

The Auror made the mistake Constantin was waiting for: he turned his back to the wardrobe.

As Constantin exited his hideaway, Ajax got down on this hands and knees to check underneath the bed.

Constantin crept closer, an animal slinking through the jungle, awaiting the opportunity to pounce. His eyes glassy with the brilliance of insanity, his wand withdrawn from the confines of the heavy coat he wore.

Ajax slowly rose from his crawling position, signalling to his observant foe that his presence was known.

Constantin's eye trained on the Auror's centre, heedfull of the right hand which he knew the man favoured.

The Auror's arm inched to the location where the werewolf knew his wand was hidden.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," growled Constantin, his voice low and menacing.

At first Ajax paused, seeming to find wisdom in that he was outwitted. Constantin kept himself on edge, prepared for what was inevitable, for there was no way he believed the Auror would acquiesce. It was not in any Auror's nature to give in without a fight.

Ajax's hand shot inside his coat, endeavouring to out-manoeuvre the werewolf.

It was the excuse Constantin needed.

A green light seared through the room as the Unforgiveable was uttered.

"Avada Ke--"

That was all Ajax managed to hear before falling lifeless with a dull thunk! to the floor.

Chapter 3

One is never more alone than when among a crowd. It reminds how truly secluded a person is while surrounded by those who either have their own business with which to attend or were inside a smaller group of friends, completely unmindfull of all else.

Despite that philosophy, Evangeline Redgrave strolled through Covent Garden for the simple purpose of being around others. It was something she did often: purchase a cup of tea at one of the various cafès, never choosing the same flavour or establishment twice, then proceed with some wishfull window shopping. On rare but better days she was able to actually treat herself with a small trinket which captured her eye during those walks.

Surrounding herself with others was a necessity even though seeing people happily together instiled an ache within her; the flat was too empty now that Patrick was gone. While out, she carried no expectations of meeting another. Life was complicated enough without being involved in a new relationship at the moment. Besides, it was too soon after her very recent break-up with Patrick. The present was not a good time...but she always went to Covent Garden with the hope of catching a glimpse of him.

A fortnight ago was when she first spotted him; an eternity back into another world when the weather was slightly warmer and Patrick still occupied the left side of the bed. Much like the gorgonised children who clustered around him, she was equally mesmerised by the phantasmagoria he performed for the pocket change of passers-by. Intimidated by his remarkable talent for magic, other buskers refused to work near him for he easily stole the attention of curious adults, enthraled children and inveigled tourists. Affronted by his success, his fellow buskers moved to alternative locations that proved more profitable for them.

Evangeline marvelled when out of thin air he produced chocolate for the children and single red roses for the ladies in his captivated audiences. There were other simple tricks: turning handkerchiefs into different colours as they remained seated in a gentleman's breast pocket, lighting cigarettes with fire from an igneous index fingertip, taking rings from random spectator's fingers for them to reappear inside an ice cube within their drinks, tapping empty boxes that refilled with popcorn or cups with coke or lemonade, touching vacant pavement and conjuring an animal, usually a rabbit, or levitating many objects he commanded to play like acrobats in mid-air. These all could have been dismissed as mere sleight of hand.

Untill she saw the wand.

Of course! This man was so adept with magic because he was a wizard! But why would a competent, talented wizard such as him be a street performer in Muggle London?

Within moments of this revelation, Evangeline pieced the clues together. The wizard appeared terribly run-down as if he'd been ill when she first saw him. Other characteristics then fell into place. He had an ancient sort of youth; the lines on his handsome face belied a life of hardship. Dark circles of restless nights grooved beneath tired eyes. Flecks of grey accented his tawny hair, telling tales of worry and a collection of problems ranging from where to sleep to how to keep warm. He was gaunt, a lingering sombre fact that he never got enough to eat. The darned and patched clothing he wore was threadbare and couldn't possibly provide sufficient warmth against the harsh weather.

All of the obvious signs were there and Evangeline was keen to them. Her sweet-natured wizard busker was a werewolf. Notice of his circumstance neither frightened the young woman nor deterred her from returning for a glimpse of him. A glimpse, she told herself, to check on his welfare, for there was something about him that enticed her.

This did not go beyond Patrick's detection. Patrick, a wizard who generally kept an open mind, was found wanting when it came to werewolves. Unfortunately, werewolves were Evangeline's working cause as she was employed in Werewolf Services in the Being Division of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. The only aspect Patrick liked about her work was the garrulous explanation of where she was employed. The long-named locale, he teased, impressed that she was more important than she really was.

"To those people, I am important, Patrick," she'd insisted in a terse tone.

"You cater to animals, Evangeline. Animals that the world would be better without."

"They aren't animals, they're people just like you and I."

"Tell that to your boss, then. I'm certain he'd love to hear your theories about how human those monsters are."

Evangeline did not speak to her condescending arse-of-a-boyfriend for three days after that argument. It was one thing to disagree with her line of work but his outright mockery of her convictions was an insult she refused to tolerate.

Patrick, in his defence, was a Healer in the Dai Llewellyn Ward of St. Mungo's, which was why he felt obligated to always be on about the mutilated victims of werewolf attacks brought in for treatment, stating that his fact outweighed her theoretical fiction. He argued that more and more victims were brought in on a monthly basis; that Britain was losing control of the brutal beasts and needed to tighten its hold over them.

At first Evangeline, who met Patrick when she brought a newly bitten werewolf in for Ministry-mandated examination and recuperation, thrilled at his difference of opinion. The rows escalated into passion that found its way into the bedroom but it grew more frustrating than exciting as he took sarcastic jabs at her in public or at social events. Usually she remained silent, the belief that she did the right thing with her work strengthening her standing.

She could spend a lifetime expounding the Wizarding world on a werewolf's humanity but as long as the Ministry of Magic issued tenets accusing werewolves of being Dark creatures fit to be controlled, subdued and even destroyed then it was pointless. The very presence of her department proved the Ministry's blatant hypocrisy. She and her coterie in Werewolf Support Services strove to build everything the Ministry fought to tear back down.

There was one saving grace. Whenever Evangeline felt like she was tangled in a Pyrrhic cause, she visited the safehavens she helped create. Interacting with the many men and women living within them made everything worthwhile. They always treated her with the utmost respect and gratitude for her help. Those who did not or were unable to speak showed thankfulness in their eyes, an appreciation that shone beyond the haunted expression of despair etched inside them.

Unlike Patrick, Evangeline never retained a phobia of werewolves. Rather she extended a hand toward them and other oppressed beings, lending them a political voice in addition to the life essentials of clothing, food and shelter. She desired to help these downtrodden people whom she came to know and care deeply for, to transcend the limitations of prejudice, giving them a chance at life by allowing them equal opportunity.

Her heart went out to the handsome busker in a special way. She observed his genial behaviour, particularly with the children, and commiserated with him. Society's discarding of one who appeared to be a wonderfull person was a dour backlash on that society and it disgusted her.

Discovering that he was a werewolf caused an assortment of inquires to gather in her mind. How did he end up with his malediction? What kind of a life might he have led if he was never bitten? How old was he when it happened? Did he have someone who loved him? Where was she now if he did? Did she quit loving him and leave him after he received the bite? Did he have any children of his own? He certainly adored the ones who surrounded him with a gentleness that she found herself in awe of.

The second time they spotted him, she and Patrick were sitting on the kerb enjoying a relaxing cuppa after a particularly trying day-after-the-full-moon for the Healer. The weather one week ago was cool enough for a jumper but warm enough to sit outside. Autumn prefaced the early winter with burgeoning riots of mustard, sienna, burnt-oranges and burgundies. Evangeline paid no mind to anything or any one in specific when Patrick nudged her with an elbow.

"There's your pet wolf," he taunted.

When she looked in the direction where he pointed, her eyes fell upon the amiable werewolf distributing sweets to a group of mobbing children. He looked sick and assailable, hinting that the day after the night's transformation hadn't been kind to him. She didn't expect it to be; he was homeless after all. Nevertheless, he maintained a cheerfull disposition and offered whatever he had to the children. She sympathised with his plight and tears threatened to betray her.

"Christ, Angie," the ever-snide Patrick remarked. "He looks like shit."

"You would too if you had a night as harsh as his," Evangeline snapped back, feeling protective of the troubled wizard.

Abated by her sharp, unexpected reaction, Patrick opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, confiscated an abandoned magazine from nearby to read and stewed in anger.

Later that same night, they engaged in a quarrel that had the neighbours pounding on the walls. She was fed up with Patrick's obdurate insensitivity. Patrick was sick of her bleeding heart for dumb and dangerous animals, especially one in particular who lived in one of her safehavens. In the end, they parted ways, he returning the next day to remove his possessions while she was at work. She hadn't seen him since, which was perfectly acceptable with her. She dealt with ignorance all around her; she had no energy to return home to it in the form of Patrick Sinclair.

Evangeline sighed, her eyes stinging from a passing cold gale. She remained focused on the kindly gentleman, wanting to approach him, offer solace or her services and place him in a safehaven where he could recover from the full moon, or at least a hot drink. Today the audience members were not being as generous as they should have been. She wondered if the poor werewolf had enough to buy the hot beverage she lacked the courage to give.

A few coins jangled in her palm from inside her coat pocket. She had something to give but no bravery to give it. Her fear was absurd, she realised, but she was always that way with men she found attractive. She wanted so badly to speak with him. Should she? Would he take her charity as goodwill or unwanted pity?

Jingle, jingle, jingle!

Her fingers manipulated the coins that were now warmed by her touch.

Yes?

No?

She swirled the remnants of her lukewarm tea.

Perhaps it would be more prudent if she asked him to join her rather than throw him change like everyone else. Doing so would stand her out from the rest and display her desire for companionship.

Jingle - yes! Jangle - no!

More children added themselves to those already encompassing him. Evangeline watched with utmost interest as the werewolf performed his animal-out-of-thin-air trick, this time transfiguring a tin can into a dove. The bird perched on his forearm, cooed then fluttered its wings and soared away. The children released appreciative oooo's! and ahhh's! before shrieking and applauding. Ever the performer, her werewolf bowed and thanked the crowd.

Evangeline's heart palpitated faster when a few spectators dropped coins into the cup near his feet. For one brief, momentous instant his eyes met hers and held them like a familiar embrace before moving back to the children who requested more sweets.

The instant they passed tentative looks at each other her heart sank to her feet upon notice that his handsome face was bruised beneath his left eye. What happened?! Was he attacked for the small amount of change he earned? Her worrisome nature consumed her terribly. Who could do such a thing to this man? She strangled a sound of pity before it left her throat.

Her own gaze dropped to the cup she nursed in her hand, now containing but a mouthfull of cold tea. She gave it another couple of swirls before downing it and crumpling the cup in her fist. She rose from the kerb and took another longing glance at her werewolf.

He did not look at her again so she did not look away. Once more her hand played with the coins in her pocket as she contemplated. Should she? Shouldn't she? Yes? No?

Clink! Clink!

Evangeline made the best choice for the moment: she walked away, back towards her flat.

* * * *

Performing in Covent Garden was something Lupin greatly enjoyed. It was one good, honest way to earn money without any degradation. The children were an incentive, their expressions worth more than all the money in the world. Adults too gave excited reactions but none could compare with the gift from the gods that were the children. Truth be known, they were the sole reason he returned to his corner in exploitation of his magical prowess. Their smiling faces put a terrible, sweet yearning inside him for what could have been were he not a werewolf.

He fondly recounted how in his youth he snuggled in the arms of his parents whenever the opportunity presented itself. Often they spent time sitting before a toasty fire, Remus nestled between them, each in the arms of all while they read aloud, told stories or recited poetry. This was how Lupin obtained his deep love for literature. Those winsome moments of familial bonding did not cease after he was bitten but instead increased. With the loss of his friends, the youngster absorbed the attention ravenously as any child would, particularly one as sentient as little Remus.

All dreams of recreating those experiences with his own child were nothing more than a fantasy. Gone were the vespertine tuck-ins and bedtime stories. Snatched away were the midnight requests for water or sneaks into his bed and arms with fear of a storm or the closet monster. Taken away were all the kissings of cuts, scrapes and bruises, the troves of firsts treasured by new parents.

Lupin was close to his parents and wanted nothing more than to be a father. It was possible for a male werewolf to produce offspring with a healthy witch but the unlawfull result would be a born lycanthrope. Impregnation was not an option since he refused to create a child who would share his horrible disease from birth. Bringing an innocent into the world who would carry a painfull gene that the Wizarding world believed inferior was a sin in his eyes. It would be too much to bear knowing he was responsible because of his own selfish reasons.

Another method of reproduction was to inflict the disease on a young child with a bite like the maniacal Fenrir Greyback did to him but Lupin understood too well how it felt to be a child nearly maulled to death in a frightening attack only to later become a monster that tore itself to pieces once a month. He could never bring himself to condemn a child to that torture. Reproduction in such a heinous manner was the worst sin imaginable, justifiably answered with execution. It was absolutely out of the question and he shuddered at the thought of repeating the wrong on another child what was done to him. His heart shattered in remembrance of how the depraved Greyback ripped his childhood away from him. Regardless of how desperately he ached for progeny of his own he would never, never commit a moral or legal crime to have it.

Having a child would also introduce a sundry amount of problems to his already troubled life. If he bit the child, there was an obligation to remove it from its biological parents so he could raise and protect it himself, insuring that it wouldn't be destroyed. He would have to raise it as a werewolf in an anti-werewolf world. It would not be an easy task to accomplish: werewolves who infect someone with a bite are forced to be itinerant or else are hunted and sentenced to death.

Lupin shuddered at the implications. As much as he disagreed with Ministry officials, death as payment for an infectious bite was the one thing he supported them on. All of the convoluted laws passed were unnecessary for most werewolves and counted among them Lupin would never permit himself to have that which he wanted most out of life. Neither would the civil population of werewolves. For the most part, werewolves were good people forced into dire consequences and committed crime out of necessity. The problem generally resided in the ferals.

Female werewolves, he surmised, were barren, unable to carry a foetus in a body that contorts monthly into another form. The child would probably die in the womb from the travails of transformation. Their punishment would be the same if for nothing more than trying. All werewolves, male or female, who effectively reproduced through conception were sterilised, the offspring aborted. Sections of the Anti-Werewolf Legislation strictly prohibited werewolf procreation by any method, deeming it a verboten act even in thought.

Help control the pet population. Have your pet spayed or neutered.

The public service phrase uttered daily by an American game show host left a vile taste in Lupin's mouth.

Alas, he substituted being a parent with performing magic for Muggle children who believed the Big Bad Wolf to be a mere fairy tale invented to frighten them into obedience. Le Petit Chaperon Rouge. And he was the Big Bad Wolf. He knew he shouldn't be around children at all being that the law prohibited him, but their presence gave him a terrific sense of fulfilment. He loved each of the tender innocents who begged him for magic and chocolate. His disease did not matter to them and they loved him in spite of it. With them he found the acceptance he desperately sought.

Sadly, it did not matter to the Ministry that Remus Lupin was an upstanding citizen so long as Moony the Werewolf howled during full moon nights. That was reason enough to prevent his contact with children as if he was a nefarious sex offender rather than a man suffering from affliction. Like a leper, he thought resentfully. The Werewolf Code of Conduct forbade him to go near even Muggle children but it was less likely for him to be monitored within the non-magical world, simplifying it for a werewolf to live among the Muggles. That was why so many werewolves chose to make their way in the Muggle world. It was also why Lupin found himself among Muggle children, enjoying their company amid his yearning.

Lupin sighed in exasperation after the children emptied his chocolate-filled pockets then at last abandoned him, leaving him with the lingering desire for his own child. He felt cheated out of having a family. He didn't have the heart to intentionally burden a wife and children with his problems yet he could not help but to fantasize about if things were different for him.

Along came the bombardment of what-if scenarios. If he didn't have lycanthropy he might've married the pretty Ravenclaw he dated for two years in school. Maybe he might've married Lily in place of James. Maybe Harry might've been his son, which would've made the world a completely different place. Perhaps he would be married to the beautifull brunette witch he discovered watching him for a fortnight.

Whether her regard for him was of interest or repulsion he knew not. Either way she intrigued him, drew him to her somehow. Her gaze made him feel wanted, a refreshing feeling for him, but he was addled by her evident curiosity. The more often she returned the more fortified his own wonder became.

Initially, he met her with scepticism. It was possible that the Werewolf Registry sent her to implicate him for something or encumber him with a new law he unknowingly broke. But she took no notes with a quill and parchment as Ministry officials commonly did and instead cracked open a thick tome to read, an action that warmed his deadened heart with rapture. Beauty did not come to see the Beast's magic act; perhaps Beauty came because there was real magic between her and the Beast.

Lupin realised his instinct was correct after a game of eye tag. When he caught her watching the first time, she quickly dropped her gaze to the cup in her hand since she had no book that day. On occasion, a handsome wizard accompanied her and they spent their time reading, Lupin finding her using the book as reticence to steal glances at him, all spoilt by his return look.

Soon after their first appearance, the wizard ceased in joining her and Lupin culminated that the couple's relationship dissolved. His hopefull heart soared in thinking that he was why they split up but he could not bring himself to fully believe that. The beautifull witch still made her journeys to watch him but continued dodging his eyes.

Untill one day their eyes managed to lock and this time she did not look away. His love-starved soul resonated with an array of emotions. Hope that a woman would take interest and love him. Need for affection too long denied him. Fear that his secret would frighten her away. Terror that he would inadvertently murder her while in lupine form. The moment was curtailled when one of his child-fans tapped his arm with a request for more sweets which he readily provided.

A common misconception about Remus Lupin was that he was diffident and shy. In truth, he never needed to be since most people didn't bother the unassuming boy reading in a corner. As a man he was even more masterfull at being inconspicuous, managing to discreetly blend into the background. No, Lupin wasn't shy, he was merely withdrawn, an affect of the customary rejection he met with for most of his life. With lycanthropy he became a pariah, which he long ago accepted. It was habitual second-nature for him to avoid the eventuated revealling that he was a werewolf and the subsequent disappointment of being shunned. It was not a timid bashfullness that forced him from others but a natural fear of rejection. Far from being the nebbish person others mistook him for, he was so used to being pushed away that he started staying away from others on his own accord.

For that reason alone he did not approach the lovely witch. She craved his presence at the moment but would recoil in disgust from him later. It was a letdown he did not wish to sustain, not with the agony of Sirius' attack still fresh. Two particularly hurtfull experiences were not on his agenda.

Besides, he did not trust himself around her. The wolf was always prepared to pounce; he could feel it underneath his flesh, clawing for freedom in conjunction with the vermicular crawl of his ruinous addiction. It was impossible to decipher which of the two was worse to deal with. Already he felt the clammy sweat and ragged breathing brought on by his need for opium. Both wolf and the plant of joy wrecked pandemonium on his life and there was no room for the pretty witch.

He did not deserve her any way. Conversely, she did not deserve the hell he would have reserved for her. She could do better than a homeless, unemployed werewolf who sold himself to support his opium compulsion. Lupin didn't need to know anything else about her to realise that. Wolf aside, how could he expect her to want to live with an overbearing junkie?

What made him think she would even find him attractive? She was far too beautifull and he was shabby and unclean, nothing to desire, something to look passed rather than at. The thought occurred to him that perhaps she was indeed peering beyond him at another and he refused to set himself up for disappointment.

Pain and discomfort which he knew would escalate began its mild invasion through his body. Very soon he would need to search for relief and wondered if Adam was around. Pushing a loose strand of his longish hair back from his eyes, he contemplated his alternative source, knowing that he didn't manage to collect enough change to pay the drug baron.

I can pay! In...other ways.

Not this time, Adam. I need to draw a line somewhere.

Oddly enough, the determination to preserve his dignity at least for the day strengthened Lupin's self-esteem. Perhaps one day the pretty witch would work up the nerve to approach him. Perhaps he would gather enough courage himself to speak to her. Nothing good will ever be allowed to come of it; either by his own hand or Ministry interference, of that he was certain. Would the risk be worth the effort? He remained indecisive of what tomorrow would bring.

For now he had no intention of breaking the silence that gulfed them. Seeing her again, however, might encourage him otherwise.