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.
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