Hunting a Werewolf

3: Hunting a Werewolf

Snape had been never afraid in the darkness; not as a boy, and certainly not as an adult. He welcomed the darkness under normal circumstances, as the shadows and the absence of light allowed him to hide his deeds more easily and to act unobserved. The night was friendly towards him, hid his lanky features and his pallid face. His movements didn't get tracked under a cloudy sky and he could believe that all was well.

But tonight, under the light of a nearly full moon, things were different. One couldn't call it dark: the silvery light shone through the thick branches of the age-old trees, casting shadows everywhere. Snape pulled his cloak tighter round his bony frame. "Madness," he muttered under his breath. Frosty white clouds emerged from his lips. "I'm a fool, chasing him. I should have thought twice, doing so. In fact, I should have stayed at home, getting thoroughly pissed."

But that would have meant that in a few days he would have had to attend a friend's funeral, which was an utterly impossible, even revolting, thought. He had seen too many people die; he had killed too many himself. He had lost his love to Voldemort, his mother, Order members as well as Death Eaters he had called friends. He wouldn't allow a stupid werewolf to die, and he certainly wouldn't attend anyone's funeral but his own.

Still, this night was spooky, and the woods breathed danger in his ear. He imagined hearing Lupin's light step everywhere around him, thought he smelled the faint, smoky fragrance of the werewolf's fur. He imagined seeing the graceful movements of the werewolf in the light of the moon, and the darkness wasn't friendly and welcoming tonight. On the contrary – it caused the Potions master to wish he had brought someone else along. A hunting party, maybe.

An owl swooshed by, just touching Snape's head with the tip of its wing. He nearly jumped, cursing the blasted animal, and then decided that it was time for a break. He had been walking through the woods for hours now – it was way past midnight, he was more than tired and wasn't that the scream of a squirrel, getting killed by sharp teeth?

The small hairs in Snape's neck stood up at the sound as well as at the fact that it was real and not only happening in his overactive head. There – it had come from his left, that tiny sound of the dying squirrel, and so Snape turned left, sped up a bit and pushed through the bushes and the nettles, his hair getting caught in the twigs of the trees and his trousers getting ripped as well. Impatiently he snatched the branches out of his way – then he suddenly nearly fell when the undergrowth opened to a clearing.

In the clearing a werewolf was just ripping the flesh from the corpse of a small animal. Blood was dripping down his chin, his overlarge hands were far too big for the tiny bundle, his fur was covered in mud and leaves. Round his neck hung a thin chain; on the chain Snape could see the glittering of a golden ring. Remus's wedding ring.

The werewolf was oblivious to his surroundings, and Snape, having stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of his friend – or of what was left of him at the moment – barely dared to breathe so as not to startle him. He was relatively certain that Remus wouldn't attack; but then, getting close enough to apply that damn potion was equally unlikely.

Small crunches indicated that Lupin was down to the bones of the squirrel. Seeing the man – the wolf – devouring raw flesh was highly disturbing for Snape. He knew that Lupin was as close to being a vegetarian as it was possible for a werewolf, not eating meat under normal circumstances and if he had to, never rare. Killing was equally out of the question; at least killing the innocent. Remus would fight if he had to, but unlike Snape, was a most harmless, gentle creature. He wouldn't kill a fly. Usually.

Not now, though. The squirrel wasn't his first victim, as bloodstains and bits of fur and feathers proved, stuck to the werewolf's claws. He began to hunt as soon as he had transformed.

Snape drew a silent, deep breath, and Lupin jerked round, dropped the carcass and jumped, attacking the man standing beneath the trees.

For a single moment Snape's feet were very close in persuading him to turn and run, but in the last second he could suppress the urge to flee. Luckily – if he had done so, if he had taken his eyes off Lupin's face, he would have been dead. The werewolf would have ripped his head off in an instant, unable to control the instinct to chase and kill a fleeing prey.

But Snape stood his ground, not moving an inch, always staring at Lupin. And the werewolf's attack faltered. Only a few feet away from Snape, Lupin stopped, dropped to the ground, and eyed the human in front of him suspiciously.

He was not fully transformed, as Snape had suspected. But it was obvious that Tonks had been right – Lupin was nearly wild. Taller than Snape had ever seen him, with eyes like fiery pools and claws too dangerous to be looked at. So Snape looked into Lupin's eyes and tried to see his friend under the fur.

With a sigh, Snape realised that he had been right: Lupin wanted to be killed. It stood written in his eyes, and Snape felt goose bumps appearing on his back, knowing only too well how logically it sometimes seemed to just leave this life behind. He had thought so himself, now and then. Maybe that was the reason why he and Lupin had become friends after all those years of mutual dislike – they knew that life could be most cruel, and both had suffered from the beatings fate sometimes liked to share.

Snape hoped Lupin wouldn't attack him – not yet, anyway. But the werewolf wouldn't come close enough either, the wolf part being too scared of the human standing in front of him.

Snape lowered himself carefully on one knee. Lupin was a bit more than an arm's length away, a bit too far away to reach him. "Let me help you," Snape said with a low, calming voice.

Lupin jumped up, turned, and ran off.

"Fuck," Snape said wearily, and got up again, following the tracks that were visible on the wet ground.

******************

The sun was up when Snape found Lupin the second time. It hadn't been hard to follow the werewolf's tracks, not when one had a wand and knew a tracking spell, but still, Lupin was fast and Snape quite a bit slower on only two legs and with bones so tired he could barely move on. But he was stubborn, and he was determined – he didn't have much more time left as he was certain that Dumbledore would inform the Ministry with the rise of the moon.

Occasionally, Snape had the feeling that Lupin was watching him, but he didn't make the same mistake twice and called out for him. The offer of help had freaked the werewolf out. "He doesn't want help," Snape muttered whilst crossing a shallow brook. "He wants to get killed. I really wonder how I shall get close enough to put that damn potion inside his body."

The potion, yes. Snape had to admit that he couldn't be sure if the Moonflower potion would work, as it was hundreds of years ago since last a werewolf got injected with it. The effect was easy: it would reverse the transformation the werewolf had already undergone, bringing him back into his human form. Simple, really, and it only worked for wild werewolves whose hormonal household differed massively from the one of a normal werewolf. The potion – if it worked – would effectively prevent Lupin not only from turning wild once more, but acted as a permanent Wolfsbane as well. Remus once had tried the Moonflower potion, hoping it would free him of the necessity to down the Wolfsbane regularly each month. But it hadn't worked, had shown no effect whatsoever.

Turning a corner, Snape found himself on a small clearing, which was a relief after hours and hours fighting with branches and twigs and bushes. He had eaten the piece of bread long before sunrise, the flask was empty as well, but Snape was neither hungry nor thirsty. He only wanted to find Lupin, inject him with that damn potion, take him back home, and get some sleep. "Idle wishes," the Potions master grumbled.

Then, he saw some fur and knew that maybe those wishes had been not only idle, but stupid as well.

Lupin had transformed a bit more. He was on all fours now, and his face was nearly completely that of a wolf. His fur, brown streaked with grey, showed signs of his journey through the woods. A low growl came from his throat at the sight of the human, and he retreated back into the brush.

"If you think I chase you any longer, Lupin, you are bloody mistaken," Snape snapped, as he was quite exhausted and anxious to fulfil his task on top. "If you want me to kill you, you have to at least stay still."

It was a tricky moment – Lupin was still enough human to understand the Potions master's words, and therefore, he remained just a step away from the trees. On the other hand, his instincts must be telling him to attack, to kill the man in black who had chased him down. Lupin was clearly trying to follow both voices in his head: a step forward, two paces back, a growl, bared fangs, and more growling came from his direction.

Snape pressed on. "What, wolf, are you scared now?" he mocked and came a bit closer. He knew that if he offered help once more, Lupin would run again. And yes, Lupin remained rooted to the spot.

"You know, it would have been a lot easier if I had allowed Dumbledore to inform the Ministry," Snape went on. He was less than five feet away from the werewolf and could smell his fur, the wild fragrance of the wolf, and the blood between his fangs. He had smelled it before – more than once. Remus had been in his house at full moon, his mind preserved by the Wolfsbane, but his body obeying the call of the magic. But here, out in the woods, the smell was stronger, harsher, wilder. More dangerous. "But I thought I should kill you myself. Consider it as payback for all the nasty tricks you and your friends played at me when we were children." Another step. Lupin hadn't moved so far.

Snape cold see the muscles tremble under the fur – a clear sign that Lupin was either close to fleeing or close to attack. Both possibilities bore certain problems. The Potions master was certain that he wouldn't be able to chase down the wolf once more if Lupin decided to run. But it was equally sure that he wouldn't survive an attack.

Oh, damn, Snape thought and continued annoying his friend. Maybe, if he found the right balance between annoyance and soothing, he could get close enough to inject him and still survive the day. Highly unlikely, though.

At that moment, Lupin leapt and hid behind a tree. Swearing silently, Snape said, "Coward!" loud and clear.

Lupin, who had been just a heartbeat away from vanishing into the woods, froze. And Snape smiled – he knew exactly how unnerving it was to be called a coward when, in fact, one wasn't. Lupin had made a bitter decision: forced by circumstances and a nearly unbearable life, he had come to the conclusion that he would be better off dead than alive. And when he was killed by the Ministry, his family would get a high compensation; enough, in any case, to guarantee his son a life without financial sorrows. If, of course, he managed to get killed. And he wouldn't get killed if he continued to run away.

Slowly, Lupin turned and faced Snape. In his eyes was a hint of humanity left – the sole reason why he had changed a day before that full moon, so he would be able to control his instincts to kill at least for a while, hoping the Ministry would find him during that time.

Snape, standing lazily in front of him, provoking him, calling him a coward, saw the change in the werewolf's manner and took a step back out of sheer self-protection, but Remus was incredibly fast. Instead of retreating further into the woods, he turned on his hind legs and leapt across the bush and the brush back onto the clearing right to the spot where Snape stood. His paws barely touched the ground. Then he hit Snape, knocked him off his feet, and ripped open his jacket, shirt, and chest with his long, sharp claws.

Snape didn't even have time to cry out, so fast came the change in events. One moment he had tried to hinder Lupin to get away, the next moment he felt his own blood soak his shirt, having the hot breath of the werewolf in his face and the long fangs only inches away from his throat. His wand was somewhere behind him on the half-frozen ground. Well, it wasn't a wand he needed, but a needle.

Time stretched like chewing gum – at least, it seemed so for the Potions master. He expected to feel those fangs ripping him to pieces any second, he felt the werewolf's hind leg claws butchering his right thigh, he felt the front paws once more digging in his shoulders and all the way down his back. Still, there was time to get his hand into his pocket, to pull out the delicate little syringe, uncup it, and to thrust it deep into the werewolf's neck, emptying its contents into Lupin's blood system.

Snape didn't know who cast the low, long cry – himself, out of pain, or Lupin, out of shock that he had been betrayed. But it didn't matter, really. The heavy, furry body collapsed on top of the Potions master, forcing the air out of his lungs, before the werewolf once more struggled, then lay still. Snape, being positive that Lupin's slashing claws had not only ripped his flesh, but had at least cracked some ribs, had to force his panic down as the weight became even greater when the wolf's muscles became limp. He felt quite sick all of a sudden, and his head became light, his vision dizzy. Inconvenient timing, he thought, slightly bemused. Then he drifted into unconsciousness himself.