Summary: Veasna Bon-Fortuné is an Armenian Warlock. Learn what really happened to the Wagga Wagga Werewolf.
This story is now completed, thanks to everyone who reviewed!
Categories: General Fics Characters: None
Warnings: None
Challenges: Series: None
Chapters: 3
Completed: Yes
Word count: 4105
Read: 6394
Published: 07/27/05
Updated: 09/05/05
1. Prologue by bookaholic_au
2. Full Moon by bookaholic_au
3. Epilouge by bookaholic_au
Prologue by bookaholic_au
Chapter1: Prologue
A/N “ Disclaimer: I own nothing; it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing the characters to play with for a while. This is for pleasure only, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: Wagga Wagga is pronounced wOgga wOgga.
The toilet described really does exist. Go to http://www.tourismwaggawagga.com.au/tww/ click maps, then street directory and look for Jubilee Park, Bourkelands.
For more information go to: http://www.tourismwaggawagga.com.au/tww/
All the birds mentioned exist. Tawny frogmouths are not owls, however much they look like them. Bush turkeys are a common Australian pest and posses all the intelligence of a chicken.
I modified Procoptodon from a real animal (an ancestor of the kangaroo). It is not mentioned in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, I just needed another magical creature native to Australia.
Veasna Bon-Fortuné waited at the Burke St Train Station pensively. He had only been a month away from his native Armenia and was already missing it. Australia was wonderful but, in the famous words of L. Frank Baum, there was no place like home.
He boarded the train, stumbling with the unfamiliar currency as he paid his fare. Four stops later he disembarked, heading over to what the Australians termed ‘the loo’.
The ramshackle building was well over a hundred years old and yet, it did not bear the signs of abuse that most old, public buildings showed. No tile was missing from the roof, all of the toilets were still in possession of their ancient seats, the doors swung cleanly on their hinges, and the locks were as well oiled as on the day they were made. The sinks were un-chipped, the taps did not squeak, but most noticeable of all was the complete absence of graffiti. He looked with approval at the gleaming surfaces before pulling a thin piece of straight, carved wood from his back pocket and tapping the gleaming mirror above the sink.
It dissolved, creating a swirling vortex into which he stepped unflinchingly. He arrived in a room the mirror image of the first. He tapped his clothes with the stick and they transformed into billowing robes. Satisfied with his appearance he turned on one foot and swept out of the room robes flapping behind him.
Veasna Bon-Fortuné was a wizard, and not just any wizard. He was a good one.
As he walked down the cobbled street his attention was drawn towards the large white marble building that sat just near the entrance he had used. The Queensland branch of Gringott’s Wizarding Bank had was as impressive as all of the other branches of that well know bank. Wagga Wagga was an important spot in any Australian wizard’s mind, unusually; in Queensland, the wizards’ capital was not the same as the Muggle capital of Brisbane.
He gazed at the window display of a shop called Australian Postage Birds. The magical people of Australia tended to be a bit more imaginative when choosing birds to carry their post. He saw several tawny-frogmouths in the window along with a parrot, which announced the name of the sender upon delivery, however, for shorter deliveries, according to the sign in the window; bush turkeys were the bird of choice. With an intelligence charm on their pea sized brain they apparently were an inconspicuous choice.
Quills, Ink and Parchment Galore advertised the notebook, which was, apparently an Australian invention that was handier than the rolls of parchment common elsewhere.
The Potions Lab sold all of the traditional potions ingredients utensils as well as other, rather interesting items that were unique to Australia, like Billywig stingers and Procoptodon dung (giant flying kangaroos).
But he wasn’t interested in that. He was headed to Merlin’s Magical Hospital.
Why? I hear you ask. Why was a tourist heading to the local hospital? Why would he need to?
Because Veasna Bon-Fortuné was the leading authority on werewolves, and the safety measures involved, in the Wizarding world.
He sat beside a bed. A large and colorful bunch of flowers sat on a nearby table. In the bed, a pasty looking man lay hopelessly. “Zev, it’s all right! Many people have led perfectly normal lives after being bitten. You just need to have a plentiful supply of Wolfsbane potion and a good place to go once a month, but the Ministry will help you with that.
“Some people are prejudiced but you can learn to live with that. Your good friends will realize that you are just the same as you were before,” he continued consolingly. “Your life will be different but not necessarily bad!”
“How can you say that?” Zev raged. “You haven’t been bitten!”
“No,” Veasna replied pensively. “No, I haven’t. But I have talked to people.” He paused, thinking. “It is pointless trying to convince you when you don’t want to be convinced. How were you bitten?”
“I was out walking, I always walk at that time. What I normally do is apparate to the national park; it’s a nicer place to walk. I heard something; I thought it was a dingo.” Zev paused, lost in the memory of his last werewolf free hours.
“But it wasn’t?” Veasna prompted.
“No,” he stated flatly. “It wasn’t.”
Zev sighed, staring out of the window, lost in memories. They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“Did you see any markings?” Veasna began again. “We might be able to identify your attacker.”
“No.”
He ran. Running away from the rustling noise behind him. The full moon shone over the trees, giving the eucalypts a silvery tint. A sugar glider ducked unnoticed out of sight above him, a dingo retreated to his den a little way away; they knew that something was wrong, even if they weren’t sure what.
He ran, paws digging into the soft ground. He howled, full of the thrill of the chase. Through the red haze that covered his eyes he could see that his prey was panicked. It ran faster. He kept up effortlessly, his long, loping steps eating up the distance. The wild creatures were gone now; they knew that something was wrong; they didn’t stop to find out what. He was hunting, they did well to stay out of his way.
He ran, not looking behind him, the soft, loping footsteps were closer. And closer still. He ran faster, determined not to look back.
He ran, eyes fixed on his prey, the dry dirt shifting beneath his paws. His prey ahead ran faster, he could smell its fear. It looked back. He pounced, wind ruffling his fur.
It was a wolf, a big, gray wolf with glowing red eyes. It pounced, he screamed and knew no more.
He ran, a wound on his side streaming crimson liquid. The world was tinted red; he was hunting. He howled to the burning moon high above him; he reigned supreme, but for one night, only one night.
He ran.
Want more? I am trying to get the next chapter up ASAP, but not until I get some reviews. Do your part before going on to read and review Captivated as well; I will do the same for you!
Full Moon by bookaholic_au
Chapter2: The Full Moon
A/N “ Disclaimer: I own nothing; it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing the characters to play with for a while. This is for pleasure only, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: Lupus Ululatus means wolf howl in Latin; at least, I think it does.
Veasna Bon-Fortuné sighed and laid down his book, it was late and he needed to get some sleep. Things had been so hectic here, what with the werewolf attacks the previous month that he had felt obliged to stay and help out. No one objected, which was good. He would have carried out his investigations with or without ministry approval but it made things a lot easier to have it.
He had a hunch that it was a muggle; most wizards would take wolfsbane potion, it made the transformation a lot less painful. The other option would be if Greyback or one of his minions were here, that would be bad news; they were, after all, working for You-Know-Who. But no children had been targeted so it was unlikely. Maybe You-Know-Who sent someone just to cause chaos by biting a muggle? Or some poor werewolf missed his potion and hasn’t owned up because of the severe laws?
But no matter, he could think about it in the morning. He rolled over and went to sleep.
The full moon was crept up on him, Zev thought. He wasn’t looking forward to it. The transformation was said to be extremely painful. The last month had been one of the worst in his life, on second thoughts, the worst in his life.
He gazed in disgust at the smoking goblet. It was the foulest potion he had ever tasted, and that was saying something. Unfortunately not just sugar but any sweetening agent made it worthless. He sighed and, holding his nose, tipped the whole lot down his throat. It tasted disgusting, just like normal.
Normal, what a funny word, he would never have believed four weeks ago that this would ever be ‘normal.’ But what does normal mean anyway? Normal is a pattern, normal is comforting. But is this comforting? It is definitely a pattern, but is it comforting? Yes, in a way it was, because it was the same. He was confused. Very confused, when he had the brilliant idea of getting of that train of thought and the madness that was its destination.
He sighed and got ready to go to bed. It was still early, but he wouldn’t get much sleep tomorrow night. Not with the moon.
Veasna Bon-Fortuné stormed out of the Greek style building. He had told them that there might be a werewolf around tonight but they were refusing to put guards out. They had imposed a curfew for the full moon but had not done anything else. There wouldn’t be any wizards out; it was the muggles he was worried about.
If a muggle got bitten; they would find out about the magical world, they would be dependant on the hospital for wolfsbane potion, and someone might notice that they’re never around on a full moon, they would never be able to explain. If it were bad to be a wizard and a werewolf, it would be unbearable to be a muggle and a werewolf.
He knew what he would have to do. He would have to watch, all by himself. He headed for the shops; he had to pick up something for his midnight watch.
He stood at the floor to ceiling window in his hotel room, gazing not through it but at the small, foggy, gold-rimmed mirror in his hand. Dark shapes moved deep within it but he did not move at all. They moved closer; until they were close enough to touch, close enough to see the whites of their eyes, he disappeared with a crack.
The fair was on, the Exhibition. The muggles were out in force, only a rare few stayed at home on a night like this. Veasna sighed. It made his difficult job just that much harder.
The crowd swarmed over the exhibition grounds. There was barely an unoccupied place to stand. At the stands, woodcutting and other competitions were underway; the whole night had a festive air. The full moon loomed overhead against the stormy backdrop of the night sky. It would have been beautiful if he didn’t know the significance of it.
As it was, it was ominous.
He looked at the mirror in his hand, the dark shapes circled nearer still. One of them was stretching and mutating. The eyes turned red as the body elongated and grew fur; it was a werewolf and it was nearby.
He looked around nervously before taking out his wand and gave it the appearance of a hotdog, to take care of any muggles looking his way. Muttering “Lupus Ululatus,” caused a loud howl to be emitted from his wand. A few muggles looked his way, but seeing nothing unusual continued on, it was lucky he was so near the dog show.
He knew that he wouldn’t have much time to prepare. The werewolf would be coming soon. He could only hope that it stayed away from everyone on the way. He moved so that he stood in a deserted alleyway and performed the Lupus Ululatus charm again. He waited, and soon heard a reply. He repeated the charm, practicing his next incantation mentally; it was vital.
He didn’t know how long he paced. But no matter how much he practiced he was still shocked out of his skin when he heard a low growl and a elongated canine head poked round the corner, red eyes glowing maliciously.
It leaped, coming to a halt only a meter away from him. Veasna stood still, trying his best to look unfazed but he could not help the tiny beads of sweat that appeared on his forehead. It worked with most animals, after all. He was trembling; his heart beat fast inside his chest, ready to burst out. He raised his wand, intending to begin the spell, but almost as if it sensed his aim, it backed away, slinking off into the shadows.
He stood up and straightened as new resolve flooded his body. He paced slowly forward, one of the reasons this spell was not often used is that it had to be performed while the tip of the wand was touching the werewolf. He still shook inside but his sense of duty stilled his fear; he could not let the muggles get hurt.
He raised his wand and shouted, “Petrificus Totalis.” The werewolf’s arms and legs snapped to its body, but not for long. Werewolves, as magical creatures are able to throw off spells, after a time; and, once thrown off, they were immune to that spell, until they transformed back.
He advanced slowly, wand held carefully in front of him; one meter, half a meter, twenty-five centimeters, twenty, fifteen, ten, nine . . . It moved. It moved, getting to it’s feet as it continued to growl at the foolish human, standing only meters away, wand raise in a shaking hand.
It leaped; Veasna stood his ground, shaking. The world seemed to move in slow motion. He raised his wand, carefully keeping it away from the furry monstrosity leaping at him lest it break. He aimed, once again mentally revising the spell, and, just as it’s gigantic paws crashed into his shoulders knocking him to the ground, he spoke the incantation, “homomorphus.”
The werewolf shrunk, fangs vanishing inside his thick pelt, which, in turn, disappeared. His legs curled up beneath him, changing. Within minutes there was little trace of the wolf left. A small weedy looking man lay curled on the dirt floor of the makeshift alleyway. Veasna stood still, waiting to get his strength back. Soon, he straightened and levitating the werewolf, apparated to the Local Magic Council, to report his sucess.
Epilouge by bookaholic_au
Chapter3: Epilogue
A/N “ Disclaimer: I own nothing; it all belongs to J. K. Rowling. I’m just borrowing the characters to play with for a while. This is for pleasure only, no profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author’s Note: Kerfuffle is a real word, it means a commotion; I think it has Irish roots.
Gilderoy Lockhart is the best character to write about. It is so much fun to make people sound like big-headed idiots; without going out of character, although I have exaggerated his stupidity a bit. I recommend it!
This is my attempt to be funny. If I’m not, please tell me so I don’t try to write a funny story again and subject you to my sad humor.
Lockhart’s opinion of modern art is not my own, so please don’t be offended.
Veansa Bon-Fortuné sighed as he walked up to the stage. He had, in the words of the magical mayor: “saved this city from a threat that preyed on wizards and muggles alike.”
“Listen, I don’t know why you think that it was a ‘threat.’ It was simply a poor muggle who had been bitten and had no idea what it meant. I did what any concerned citizen would do and did my best to protect the muggles against something they couldn’t protect themselves against.
“Personally, I don’t think that this is the end. Unfortunately, muggles aren’t bitten all that often as most wizards take wolfsbane potion and keep themselves locked up on the full moon, for others safety. I think you have a rouge werewolf on your hands.” He waited the kerfuffle his statement caused to cease.
“I think that it might be one of Greyback’s bunch. They are a group of werewolves who work with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; they are extremely dangerous. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named often pressures families who will not join him by threatening to have Greyback or one of his sympathizers bite their children. Needless to say it often works. As the werewolf I discovered is a muggle, it is more likely that he was between the werewolf and his prey, and was bitten accidentally.
“I would suggest that a strict curfew be imposed on the full moon and precautions are taken. It might be a good idea if everyone who is unable to apparate in a stressful situation to have a portkey on them at all times, particularly during the full moon.
“The spell that forces a werewolf to transform is ‘homomorphus’, the drawback of this spell is that your wand has to be touching the werewolf for it to work. If anyone wants to try, remember that is an extremely difficult charm and that werewolves can, after a time, throw of most binding spells, and, when they do, they will be immune to that spell until they transform back.
“Another useful spell to know when dealing with werewolves is ‘Lupus Ululatus’ which causes your wand to emit a howl that sounds uncannily like a werewolves. While it is unwise to use it in normal circumstances, as it will draw the werewolf’s attention to you, it is highly useful when trying to distract it.
“Remember that a wolf does not rely on its vision much and neither does a werewolf. An invisibility cloak or disillusionment charm would not work alone. With the help of an odorless charm and a silencing charm you might stand a chance of not getting detected but I wouldn’t risk it.
“Climbing a tree may work against ordinary wolves, but I wouldn’t recommend it with a werewolf; they have been known to climb.
“One of the only safe methods of keeping out of a werewolf’s way is in animal form. Werewolves may snap playfully at a particularly annoying specimen but only in the most extreme circumstances do they hunt animals.
“Thank you for listening, please remember my advice if you ever need it and I hope that you do not.” He stepped down from the podium to raucous applause; the crowd was obviously happy for the advice.
Gilderoy walked thorough Wagga Wagga, carefully looking for the address he had been given; it wasn’t considered polite to floo to see someone you didn’t know, and, even if you did know him or her, it still wasn’t polite to apparate into someone else’s home. Besides which, he had never been able to apparate to a place he hadn’t seen; he disguised it well, of course.
He found it. It was a large building by the side of the road. Either it was a muggle hotel or the owners had done a very good job at making it look like one. He thought the former.
He entered the foyer. Yep, he thought, the décor was definitely muggle. No moving portraits decorated the stark white walls, just those horrid splattered colours on white canvases that muggles called art. No portraits of handsome, dashing, charming, heroic Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin 3rd class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League and five times winner of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile Award smiled from the walls.
He looked around. The only doors were the one he had come from and a set of steel doors at the far side of the room. He headed for them. The thing was, he couldn’t figure out how to open them.
If only I did muggle studies when I could, he sighed mentally. Finally he spotted two buttons to the right of the door. One had an arrow on it pointing up, the other pointing down.
With great pride in his observational skills he pressed the top button, the one pointing to the sky. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Nothing. Maybe you were meant to press the bottom one? He tried. Nothing. He pressed the top one again. Nothing . . . but what was that noise? It seemed to be coming from behind the door. He pressed his ear to it. Yes, there was definitely something in there. The doors opened.
He found himself looking down a rather curious looking tunnel. He stepped in and strode confidently towards the other door. Before he got there however, he bumped his nose. And looked up, into the face of Gilderoy Lockhart looking back at him, hands over his nose. But, that couldn’t be possible. He was in a muggle building, wasn’t he?
The answer came to him. It was a mirror. He whirled around, thinking to give up and try to find some other way into the building when the door close with a clang, right in front of his swollen nose.
Once again he spun, but seeing no other way out began to scan the small bare, mirrored room. Lockhart’s stretched out to infinity, which was an effect he found particularly amusing. He spent sometime admiring his many reflections and decided that when he got home he would have a room made like this one, with muggle mirrors. How could he find the solitude to admire his reflection with four other voices chattering away in the background?
Suddenly, remembering that he was stuck in the small room, he noticed a panel of numbered buttons to one side of the door. Numbers one through to five were there, as well as ‘G’ and ‘B’. He assumed that he was meant to press button number one first and he did. It moved. It moved up. Gilderoy staggered, before catching his fall on the metal banister that ran around the small room. It stopped suddenly and the doors opened onto a white hallway decorated with the same kind of abstract splashes of colour.
He didn’t move. The doors slid shut. He stood frozen. Soon he unfroze again and looked at the buttons with interest. He knew what they did now. He looked at the address.
Veasna Bon-Fortuné
Room 45, level 4
The Wagga Wagga Hilton
Without hesitation he pressed button number four.
Veasna Bon-Fortuné walked between the shelves as he browsed the bookstore. He paused before a particular book. A Week With A Werewolfby Gilderoy Lockhart. There was something, just on the edge of his mind that told him that he knew some thing about it, although he had never read the book.
On an impulse he brought it, apparating to his small flat to read it. When he was done, he knew that something was wrong; something was missing, but what? He had to know, he had to go, had to go to Wagga Wagga.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.