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.