#werewolf simon

He nudges me with his shoulder. “C’mon mate, who else can you talk to about this stuff? We’re monster comrades and whatnot.”

“You’re an idiot, Snow.”

“Was it a nice dog or a shit dog?”

“Crowley, Snow.” I get up and pace to the window. The proximity was too much. “It was a nice dog. I felt horrible, but the blood lust had just kicked in and I was desperate. I still feel terrible about it.” I put my hands on the sill and breathe in the briny scent of merwolf. Simon’s wolf scent is so much better.

“Blimey, Baz.” He’s next to me again, hand on my back, right at the base of my neck. “That’s awful, but like you said, you were desperate. It was a life or death decision for you, yeah? I mean, it was for the dog too, I suppose, but I’m sure he understood.”

“I tried to make it quick. I loved that damn dog.”  I’m crying now. Splendid. This is not what I had in mind when I thought Snow being a werewolf would bring us closer. Where’s my erotic gropefest?

Snow is rubbing circles on my back. “You did what you had to do to survive, Baz. It’s ok. Your dog would forgive you. What was his name anyway?”

My stomach drops to my feet. “Er—”

Simon is looking at me expectantly, “Um,” my mind is on lockdown, I can’t even think of a suitable lie. “Well,” I swallow. “His name was—Rusty.”

Snow wrinkles his brow at me. “Rusty? As in me—Rusty.”

Whatever blood I have in me comes to my face and I look up at the ceiling. “Um. Yes.”

“You named me after your dead dog? The one you killed?”

“Yes.” I wonder, if I jumped out the window, if I could float like a butterfly away. Like, to Siberia.

“Ha,” Snow barks, clapping me on the back. “Blimey, you’re morbid.”

“He was a good dog,” I mumble.

“Well, there’s your redemption then. It’s all good as long as you don’t kill me, yeah?”

“Don’t tempt me, Snow.”

“Speaking of hunger, can you get us into the dining hall? I’m starved.” 

 ***

Baz:

Simon is pacing.

“I hate this, Baz.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. There’s a light sheen of sweat across his forehead.

“I know.” I say, putting down my book.

It’s Friday night, another full moon.

Snow sits next to me on the bed. Too close. He always sits too close now. Like he’s trying to warm me by proxy. His magic is up, blurring his edges slightly. “Breathe, Snow.”

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I don’t know how you do it, Baz. Living this double life.”

“I have to,” I reply. “What’s the alternative?”

Simon sighs and leans back, tapping his head on the wall behind him.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, “Here it comes.” He starts pulling off his hoodie. My hoodie, I should add, my Watford football one. He’s started stealing my clothes. I don’t mind.

Just as he’s removing his pants, he lets out a strangled groan and falls to his hands and knees. The transition has gotten smoother, faster, but it doesn’t appear to be any less painful. Simon’s jaw is set, his eyes closed as he tries to bear it.

I can’t. Can’t bear it, that is. Seeing him like this. But I do it anyway. I kneel next to him murmuring platitudes. “It’s all right, Snow. It will be over soon. I’m here.” I love you. You’re my best friend. What I really want to say stays locked within my heart.

With a final whine and a snap of bone, a large, bronze-haired dog replaces Simon at my side.

“Hello, stupid.” I say, wrapping my arms around his giant neck as he licks a trail of slobber across my face.

Snow rolls over onto his back so I can scratch his belly. “Who’s a big stupid dog?” I croon as he writhes with happiness, tongue lolling. “Who’s the love of my life? The bane of my existence? That’s right, you are.”

Were-Simon gives a sharp bark then jumps onto my bed, turning around three times and scratching my blankets into a comfortable pile, then plops onto them. He gives me an impish canine grin from within his nest. “You are a bed hog, you gorgeous imbecile,” I proclaim as I spell the bed larger.

I climb in. There’s a brief tussle, as I untangle my blankets from beneath his hulking form. I snuggle close and breathe his wild scent. These nights, nestled beside this version of Simon Snow, are the only nights in my life when I actually sleep. When I don’t lie awake and fret, or toss and turn with nightmares. I feel safe and warm and happy. I doze off to the sound of his gentle huffing snores.

***

This weekend is for hunting.

Simon and I spend Saturday in the wood. Cook Pritchard continues to be thrilled to pieces to provide baskets of food for my “friends.”

Snow bounds through the forest ahead of me. I take my time, draining any woodland creatures that strike my fancy. It’s cold, there’s a light dusting of snow on the ground, but not enough to impede our progress. I’ve cast “warm winter wishes” so the temperature doesn’t bother me.

I hear a crashing in a thicket to my right, I pull out my wand and assume a defensive stance. (Snow has been coaching me.) Before I can get out a spell, Simon (the dog) bursts out and happily sits in front of me. He drops a dead squirrel at my feet and cocks his head at me, panting. He’s positively grinning. (As much as a dog can grin.)

I look at the offering, then at Snow. “Is this for me?”

He gives a quick bark and keeps his eyes on mine, tail wagging like mad.

When I pick up the squirrel, Snow leaps to his feet expectantly.

“Do you want me to throw it or drain it?” He is a retriever after all.

I make to throw the carcass, and Snow sits again, looking a bit dejected. 

I shrug and drain the squirrel. When I’m done, Snow is leaping beside me. “You’re a moron, Snow.” I hug his golden neck. “But I still love you.”

We stop for lunch in a clearing. I’m idly playing with Snow’s fur while feeding him most of the contents of the basket. “You know I’ve never had a proper friend.” The dog places his great head in my lap so I can have better access to his ears. He loves ear rubs.

“I mean. I have Dev and Niall, they’re good lads, but they don’t really know me. Do they?”

Tiny yellow birds flutter in the trees above. “You, on the other hand, know my deepest, darkest secrets. Well, one of them.”

I pause in rubbing his ear and he jams his cold nose at me to continue. “Blimey, I suppose you know all of my secrets don’t you.” I take his great face in my hands and squish around his loose skin, making Snow look ridiculous, but also blissfully happy. “I, Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, am hopelessly and forever in love with you, Simon Snow.”

Snow just stares idly at the birds above and wags his tail.  

The shadows are getting longer and the temperature is dropping as Snow and I make our way back home through the forest. He’s running ahead, as usual. The cacophony of his joyful bounds through the brush a counterpoint to my quiet steps along the trail. Until the moment that I realize the wood has gone silent. Then, Snow’s guttural snarl sends an ice pick down my spine.

I round a bend and catch up to Simon. I find him, hackles raised, slowly advancing on someone backed against a tree.

My heart jumps to my throat as I focus on the figure. Green tunic. Ridiculous moustache.

I wipe my hands across my face, then rake them through my hair.

What should I do? What should I do?

Should I go after him? Leave him be? Where is he going? Does he even know?

The drawbridge is closed. I’m too frazzled to manage a spell to get around it. Sleep isn’t an option tonight. My eye catches on the pile of books Malfoy sent over. At least Hogwarts still has a fully stocked library, not the Children’s Garden of Verses we have here at Watford. I take a copy of “Magical Beasts and Where to Find Them,” a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and settle onto my bed to try and focus on the pages.

***

  Sunrise turns the room pink as I realize I’ve been reading the same paragraph for half an hour. I have no idea what it says. The only information I’ve retained from this exercise is that the full moon phase can last up to about four days. The transformation seems to last longer in the newly Turned. Also, there is a potion called Wolfsbane that helps lessen the effects of the Lycanthropy.

A heavy thunk, followed by the clatter of gears indicates the drawbridge is coming down.

I snap the book shut with one hand and stand up.

Time to find a werewolf.

 ***

 It’s a good thing it’s the weekend. I certainly wouldn’t miss class to hike through the woods after this imbecile. Branches slap my face as I stomp along, following Snow’s tracks. He’s left an obvious trail of broken limbs, scratched soil and huge footprints. My vampire senses come in handy as well. His scent is different in this form. He still smells like smoke, but now there’s a wildness, a smell of petrichor and moss with hints of musk.

My mind is a swirl of thoughts, but I can’t settle on any single one. Simon, the Chosen One, Watford’s golden boy is now a monster. Technically, he’s not allowed to exist. Neither am I, for that matter, I’m well versed in keeping my secret. The question is what’s Simon going to do with this information? He’s so damned good, he could very well just turn himself in to the mage as soon as he resumes his human form. I’ll be damned to hell twice over before I let him throw his life away like that. I will stop him, even if I have to put a collar on him and chain him to the bed. (That actually sounds appealing, regardless of his reaction to his new condition.)

Simon’s scent gets stronger as I approach a dried creek bed. I slow down, treading lightly across scattered stones and debris, trying not to make a sound. An angry squirrel chitters at me from a branch above my head. If I had the time or inclination, I’d drain him out of spite. At least squirrel blood tastes better than rat.

I stop short as I come around a boulder, on the other side is the hulking form of Simon Snow. Rather, the were version of him. His breath is till heaving, but he seems to be asleep. During the frenzied events of last night, I hadn’t a chance to really get a look at him.  He’s huge, probably the size of a Shetland pony. He doesn’t exactly look wolfish, his muzzle is not so pointed, his ears flop down. He looks like, well he looks like an overgrown, shaggy, bronze-furred Golden Retriever. For snakes sake, of course Simon Snow would turn into a Golden; cheerful, loyal, lovely dogs that they are. He’s too good to even be a proper monster. Crowley. I roll my eyes and shake my head in wonder.

Dog-Simon must catch my scent because he’s instantly awake and on his feet. His head is down, hackles are up and the snarl that ensues from his mouth is most certainly lupine. His eyes are Simon’s blue, but there is no humanity or recognition in them. Only malice. Not quite so Golden-esque then.

Before I can pull my wand from my sleeve, he lunges at me, but immediately falls to the ground. He growls again and turns to bite at something behind him. I step back to a safer distance and see that the beast’s foot is caught in some kind of debris. Snow flails and thrashes, but eventually collapses, exhausted, panting.

I try to approach him, now that he’s tired, and am met once again with that malevolent, dead stare and a mouth full of giant teeth. And, I might add, horrific dog breath.  I back away into the forest to think. That thing, it is Simon. I can’t exactly leave him out here for the next three days, but how can I spell him free and somewhere safe until he goes back to human form? There are dog training spells, but what would “atta boy” do to the human part of his brain? I suppose I could spell him to sleep, but how do I get him back to our room? I don’t have the magic to transport him.

What if I could get him to trust me? Physically, he’s a giant pet dog. What’s the best way to train a dog? Positive reinforcement: Food. What’s the way to Simon Snow’s heart? Food.  

I turn and run back to Watford. It’s time to call in a favor with Cook Pritchard.

 ***

 Thank magic no one is around when I haul the giant wicker picnic basket Cook Pritchard loaded up for me across the great lawn. She gave me enough food for an army. The woman was well chuffed that I was having a picnic with “friends.” She acted as if I hadn’t any friends.  “Well that’s lovely, Basilton, so nice to see you coming out of your shell.” Cook even tucked a small bottle of dandelion wine into the basket, “to help break the ice.” She actually winked at me. I wanted to implode.

I have friends. Sure, half of them are family, but still. You only need one or two friends, anything more isn’t worth the effort.

I carry the basket through the wood. I feel like I’m on my way to a goth Victorian picnic. I stop periodically to drain a few squirrels, just for spite.  The resident dryad side eyes me as I pass her thicket. I ignore her.

“What do you seek, blood eater?” She hisses. Twirling her ridiculous umbrella. Butterflies swirl lazily around her mossy hair.

“None of your business.” I reply.

“Your pistil is a wolf.” She remarks.

“He’s not my anything.” I snarl, “And he’s not a wolf, he’s a Golden Retriever.”

“The Chosen One is an abomination,” she presses. “The children of the moon must die.”

I light a fire in my palm. “Is that so?” I drop my voice to a menace, “maybe I should take out this whole forest in the process.”

“Do what you must. The forest will regrow. He cannot live.” She calls my bluff.

“You know what? You can fuck off.” I say, frustrated.

She opens her mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. “Enough. We’re done here.” I sling the giant basket over my shoulder and stomp away.

I’ll be staked before I take advice from a woodland creature holding a parasol. Snow has as much of a right to live as I do. More so, he’s not dead. Fuck the dryad.

I finally make it back to the creek bed. Dog-Simon looks vaguely defeated, laying on his side, his back leg stretched behind him. I can see a length of rusty wire wrapped around his foot. He’s awake, wary eyes never leaving mine, a low growl rumbles in his chest.

I settle myself on the ground a safe distance away. I’m wearing my school-issue green Watford football trackie bottoms and sweatshirt. Coach Mac will probably not appreciate werewolf damage to the practice uniform. My trainers are caked with mud. I sigh. The things I do for love.

The basket creaks as I open it. The sound makes Snow get up and retreat as far as the wire around his leg will let him. His tail is down, ears back; he’s panting lightly.

I pull out the bottle of dandelion wine and take a swig, to calm my nerves. It’s bitter, with a faint floral overtone, and just enough bite to warm my chest. I take a deep breath and survey the contents of my picnic. The basket is overflowing with roast beef sandwiches, sour cherry scones, roast chicken, bacon butties, jellies, and inexplicably a layered trifle. She must have magicked it all in there.

It’s just me and the dog, and I missed breakfast, so I help myself to a roast beef sandwich. Snow’s ears tip forward and he sits down. Sniffing the air.

I toss a bit of my sandwich at him, he scrambles away with a surprised bark. Almost immediately, he cautiously noses forward, sniffing at the roast beef. He sits down again, without eating it and resumes watching me, panting. His teeth are huge.

“For fucks sake, Simon, it’s not like it’s poisoned.”

The dog’s ears perk up and he cocks his head at me. His mouth is closed, brows almost furrowed in concentration.

“Go on then lad,” I press, “roast beef is your favorite.” I remind myself to breathe.

Snow resumes panting, but lowers his nose again at the food. He nudges it, then takes an experimental bite. Apparently satisfied that the offering wasn’t going to kill him, the great dog swallows the rest. Licking his lips, he retreats to his original position, as far away from Baz as he can get.

I toss half a sandwich into his orbit.

“There you go Snow, I know you can’t walk away from half a sandwich.”

Once again Dog-Simon sits, cocks his head and looks at me. I’m probably imagining it, but his eyelids almost seem to squeeze a bit, in concentration. He cautiously walks my way, never taking his eyes off me, and eats the sandwich half in one bite. This time he doesn’t shy away, he sits, panting again and watches me.

I toss him the other half of the sandwich, which he catches in the air and eats with more gusto. He’s watching me again, this time I get a weak tail wag.

I unwrap the roast chicken and throw the whole thing at him. It lands with an unceremonious plop, a leg breaking free. Simon stands and practically inhales the whole thing. His tail is wagging faster now.

We go on like this for the duration of the afternoon. I’m slowly inching closer, I can almost touch his muzzle now. He seems more relaxed, the panting has stopped. His ears are forward, tail wagging freely. His eyes have gone softer, from ice to sky.

I reach into the basket for a sour cherry scone, I’ve been saving these for this moment. I scoot even closer, holding it in my hand this time. He’s so close, he could easily rip my throat out. It’s not often I have to worry about someone ripping out my throat. It’s refreshing, really. I suppose there are worse ways to die.

“Simon, we’re going to have to work together to figure this mess out. If there is any part of you that can hear me, let me help you. I mean, I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but…” My voice tapers off. Why would he trust me? Crowley, I’ve done nothing but torment him for the last 6 years.

A gentle breeze ruffles the golden leaves above me. “We be of one blood, ye and I.” I murmur. A warm rush of surprise washes over me. Where the fuck did that even come from? Kipling was a powerful magician, but is that even a spell? Leave it to me to channel my favorite childhood book in times of duress.

I take a breath and hold out the scone. Simon noses forward, sniffs, and carefully takes the scone from my hand. He doesn’t move away. I keep my eyes on him as I slowly reach for the basket and remove another scone. I hold it in my hand, when he takes it, I reach out with my other hand and run it behind his ear, rubbing along his jaw. He stiffens, but continues to eat the scone. “These are your favourite,” I whisper, scratching behind his ear, rubbing slowly along his neck and shoulder. Eventually, I find myself out of scones and scratching his stomach, while his tongue lolls and he scratches his back leg lazily.

I take a break because my hands are cramping from all the petting. I really hope he doesn’t remember any of this. I shake my hands and look at the grime under my nails. I’m going to need a manicure.

Simon stands and gives a mighty shake from his nose to his feathered, rudder-like tail. He utters a sharp bark, like he’s decided something, then proceeds to try and climb into my lap, his huge pink tongue lapping my face.

“Merlin and Morgana, you giant thumping git, get off. I push him away, but not too far. He knocks me to the ground and licks my whole face. For snakes sake, you’re disgusting, I get to my feet wiping saliva off my chin and trying not to smile. Simon’s tail is wagging so hard his whole body is wiggling and he’s rubbing along my side, trying to get me to scratch his back. I oblige for a moment.

“Snow, stop, let’s get your leg untangled.”  He stands so quietly as I extricate his leg from the wire, that I can’t help but wonder if he understood me.

Once freed, Simon plants his giant paws on my shoulders and smears the side of my face with his tongue once more. “Blimey, Snow.” I step back and the great dog’s feet once more hit the ground. He zooms away, coming to a skidding stop, returns to my side and bows his front legs down, rear up, tail wagging madly.

I lean down and take his huge face in my hands, scratching gently below his jaw. “Come along, you delightful moron, let’s go home.”

I turn and make my way through the forest. The late afternoon sun dappling the trail with rich golden light. Dust motes dancing in the beams. Simon scampers ahead, darting back every few minutes to make sure I’m still following.