Wary of the Moon [LYRA]

"I have woken now to find myself in the shadows of a lie I've created..."

Lyra had come into Hogsmeded village that day with her brother, Eadric, after much persuading on her part. She wanted to go into the village, not only because she had things to get, but because she wanted to be outside. She loved winter, and loved the walk to Hogsmede. She loved how the small shops looked, with their snow topped roofs and frosted windows. Eadric had complained that it was too cold, and he had homework to do, a book he wanted to read, but it hadn't taken long at all for him to bend to what Lyra wanted. He could never deny her anything, and he knew she'd hate to go in alone; there would be a lot of other students there, and Lyra often got a hard time from them.

The twins had had a nice day, wandering around the shops, loading up on sweets in Honeydukes, retreating into the warmth of the three broomsticks to drink hot, frothy butterbeers. Lyra had been in a good mood, and laughed with him as he joked with her, trying hard to keep her amused and engaged so she wouldn't notice the looks and the whispers she was getting, none of them kind. But Lyra hadn't noticed. As far as she was concerned the day had been a huge success, and so when Eadric said he needed to head back to the castle if he had any hope of getting his essay finished, Lyra had insisted that he go on without her. She still had some quills and parchment to get, and she liked to browse for a while when she did that, picking out a nice quill and ink. Lyra enjoyed little treats like that, and liked starting an essay with new ink and a sharp quill. Eadric had been reluctant, but Lyra insisted that she had been fine all day and would be fine without him. So he and Lyra had parted outside the Three Broomsticks, and Lyra had started wandering towards the quill shop, taking her time and enjoying the scenery. 

It was getting close to the full moon, and Lyra's senses were heightened. While this unsettled her, and was an unpleasant reminder, she enjoyed the smells around her. She loved the smell of winter, the smell of a fresh snow fall, the earthy smell of the forests. The rotting leaves to her added a sharper note, and while not altogether pleasant, it smelled like life. Lyra, happily wandering, didn't smell him until it was too late.

Suddenly there was another scent in the air, on she had only caught snatches of at Hogwarts before she closed her nose. She knew there was at least one other Werewolf at Hogwarts, but she kept their identity hidden from herself, and didn't approach them. Whenever she caught a hint of wolf she kept her head down, or turned the other way. She was too scared to approach them, and no rumours reached her of who it could be; no one spoke to Lyra. At least, not nicely. 

She froze as the smell filled her nostrils. The scent triggered something deep inside her, and suddenly her nerves were tingling. But there was fear, too. This wasn't a student. She didn't know who this was, or what kind of wolf they were. A lot of Werewolves were terrifying, monsters... that was why everyone hated them... her. Why everyone hated her. Lyra's only real encounter with another Werewolf was with the one that bit her. She stood frozen in place, her eyes glued to the ground in front of her, adrenaline rushing through her and experiencing a very 'flight or fight' reaction. The longer she stood there, the stronger the sense of his (she knew it was a man) scent became, like she was latching onto a trail. She could pick him out in the crowd, and knew exactly where he stood. Willing herself not to, and unable to stop herself, she slowly raised her eyes and looked right at him. 

The man Lyra locked eyes with was tall and obviously strong. He had broad shoulders, and looked like he could snap her like a twig. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes were a piercing blue. Right now it felt as though they were piercing right through her. The other villagers continued about their business, and the hustle and bustle around them was undisturbed, but all of that seemed distant to Lyra now. The sound of the street seemed far away, like someone had turned the volume down. The adrenaline running through her tuned everything out, and brought this man into sharp focus. All she could really see was him, and all she could really hear was her own heart pounding. His scent was the only thing she could smell, now. She could have said what soap he used. Lyra felt as though she were drowning, right here in the midst of this crowd. 

He was looking at her, too, and after a moment that seemed to stretch on, he started walking towards her. He cut a path through the other shoppers easily, and approached her with long strides, his eyes never leaving her face. Lyra stayed frozen in place. Finally, he reached her, and his scent fully enveloped her. It felt familiar, and at the same time wholly foreign. Uncomfortably, Lyra felt the wolf in her stir, calling out for its own kind.

And then he spoke, his voice deep and rough, and another thrill of fear passed through her. Suddenly she felt more like a deer in the headlights than the wolf she was. She looked up at him, and wished whole heartedly that Eadric was with her. She wished she had gone back to the castle with him. She wished for the safety of her brother, something that often chafed and made her feel confined, but now that she had escaped it she felt she had been wrong to want to. 

He cleared his throat, suddenly and loudly, taking a step forward, and Lyra flinched. She felt as though she should be able to hold her own, as a wolf among her fellow. She wasn't a little girl, not any more. But the memory of being bitten, of hearing the growls of the wolf and feeling the roughness of fur, but sensing the person in the dark, still terrified her. When he spoke again his voice was softer. For the first time she noticed a slight accent, but couldn't place it. He asked if he knew her from somewhere, and Lyra prickled. She didn't know if he was trying to pull one over on her, to manipulate her and try and make her feel safe, like this encounter wasn't exactly what she knew it was, but Lyra was no ones fool. She felt emboldened by this thought, if only slightly. 
"You know you don't." she replied in a low voice, keeping her eyes on him as though unwilling to turn her back or look away. 

A large part of her wanted to back away and somehow vanish from his sight, to find somewhere to hide until she was sure he was gone and she could run back to the castle and Eadric, but she knew that was utterly impossible. She had had her chance to disappear into the crowd, and she had lost it the moment she chose to raise her eyes to his. And yet another part of her felt warmed by his scent. She wanted to close her eyes and breath it yet more deeply. The wolf in her had been lonely, and longing for a pack mate. And as she admitted that thought to herself, the wolf got a stronger foothold. She felt the animalistic doctrines that had partially driven her actions more strongly; this man, older, clearly stronger and more powerful, was dominant. Lyra felt the pressure to submit, and the force of holding his gaze became too much to bare. She lowered her eyes, her breath slightly, almost unnoticeably unsteady with fear.

And still, after only a moment she couldn't resist flicking her eyes up defiantly, her mouth set. 

The man seemed to realise that Lyra was frightened, and took a step back from her, giving her more space, for which Lyra was hesitantly grateful. But he still seemed tense, still looked at Lyra with the same intensity, giving her the impression that he was feeling the same reactions she was. His jaw was set, his broad shoulders almost squared, and Lyra felt more than heard a faint rumble in his throat that seemed like the beginning of a growl. 

And still she felt the pressure to submit. It was as though laws she didn't consciously understand were ingrained in her, in her blood. It was instinctual. She knew not to meet his gaze too defiantly, not to turn her back to him, not to enter his personal space without invitation. He was the alpha, and the wolf in her knew how to respond. 

The sharp taste of fear was still in her, but his scent still drew her with terrifying strength. She felt a deep, gut wrenching longing to bury her face in his neck and breathe him in, but fear held her back. Fear, and knowledge that this was somehow not allowed. He would have to approach her. 

A sharp breeze suddenly blew between them, and Lyra's head cleared for a moment. The sound of the other shoppers suddenly came back to her, and she was aware of where she was and the people around her for the first time since she had met the man's gaze. He started speaking, and Lyra felt safer, remembering that they were surrounded by people, and for him to try and harm her in any way would be foolish.

He said his name was Max, that he owned a bookshop on the corner, and that he was Russian (that explained the accent). Lyra watched him warily as he spoke. He suggested they grab a butterbeer, and she felt wholly unsure about the idea. But at that moment the wind died down, and his scent came back to her more clearly. Again she felt drawn to someone of her own kind.

Max's eyes darkened as she watched him inhale. He demanded her name, and Lyra answered without questioning.
"Lyra." she said, softly, but knowing he could hear. They both knew now there was no question of her following him to the Three Broomsticks. The wolf in her wanted to stay near him, and felt the pressure to do as he asked. And Lyra herself was, in spite of everything, intensely curious. She was still scared of being with a Werewolf, but if he wanted to harm her... there were better places to bring her than the Three Broomsticks. It was that comforting thought that kept her calm as she followed Max towards the pub. 

As soon as they entered the warmth enveloped Lyra. The air in the pub was very close, and it was packed. Max lead her towards a small table in the back corner, one of the few still open. They sat, and ordered their butterbeers, Lyra's eyes on the table. At first entering, Lyra's nose had been filled with the scent of all the other patrons, but now they were sitting it hadn't taken long for Max's scent to fill the air around her, and for her to lock onto it until it was all she could pick up. The still, warm air in the Three Broomsticks intensified the scent until it was almost unbearable. Lyra took a deep breath, hoping to clear her head, but that only made it worse. 

Her eyes flicked up to look at Max, and hers too had darkened, were clouded over with... something. She felt a longing for the forest, to be out in the open and unconfined. 

Suddenly, a low, slightly snarling growl bubbled up in Lyra's throat. It was far too low for anyone sitting near them to hear, but Max would. She gripped her chair, trying to calm herself, and looked at him warily, knowing her momentary lack of control could be taken as disrespect, or a challenge. 

"I've never met another... one of us, before," she said in a low, slightly rough voice. "How do you stand it? Its so-" but at that moment a waitress brought over their butterbeers, and Lyra was cut off. Her woflish tendencies showed a lot more the closer it got to the full moon, but they were usually controllable. The presence of another werewolf intensified them, and the level of control needed was hard to master. 

The way Max was looking at her made Lyra nervous. He was staring intensely at her, like he might pounce at any moment. No one had ever looked at her like that before. It was unsettling. All of it was so new. The fear she felt at being around another Werewolf hadn't quite faded yet, despite the fact that Max seemed... nice. Sometimes his intensity frightened her, and her own reactions were unnerving. Perhaps if they had met at a time farther from the full moon, things would have gone... differently. 

Or maybe they would have walked right by each other, and never have met. Lyra was reserving judgement on whether that outcome would have been preferable until more had happened. 

He was faltering as he spoke, and Lyra wondered what exactly she was, in his eyes. How was she different, and so unlike the others. Were the other Werewolves Max knew, perhaps ones he ran with, more brutal, vicious and wolf like? Did Lyra seem like a child in his eyes? Or worse, like prey?

She never wanted to be like that, but it was difficult for her to stifle her fear. Being around Max made her aware that she wasn't like everyone around her. For the last three years she had walked among them, and although she had been shunned and an outsider, she had always been of them. But with Max she realised that she was part of a world that humans just couldn't understand. A wild, untamed world, sometimes lacking the laws of society and bringing with it new laws, ones known only to beasts. The word pack came into Lyra's mind. But that was different. She had heard of Werewolves living in packs, vicious brutes who had shunned society as forcefully as society had shunned them. Lyra wasn't a part of that pack. 

The waitress came over with their drinks, and looked at them strangely. Lyra was used to people looking at her strangely, and although she bristled she did it quietly, with her eyes looking in front of her, towards Max. He, however, let out a small snarl which startled the girl, and she scurried away. And Lyra wasn't frightened by it. This wasn't a wolf threatening a wolf; this was a wolf asserting dominance over a human. And she was on the wolf side. It was a strange feeling.

Lyra took a deep drink of her butterbeer, relishing the way the scent filled her nostrils and the taste filled her mouth, momentarily erasing Max and giving her a taste of normality. Slowly, she was getting used to his scent. Or, rather, she was learning to handle it. It still set her on edge, but she had stopped fighting it. 

He asked how long she had been a Werewolf. 
"Three years." Lyra answered, the answer coming naturally in response to his dominance. She looked at him, indicating that he give his answer, but didn't voice the question; it wasn't her place. And she was still very wary, keeping a distance, observing more than she wanted to speak and engage. 

It had been a hard three years. Maybe it wouldn't seem long to him. Perhaps he had been a Werewolf for much longer. He seemed more comfortable in his skin than Lyra did. She was a sweet, harmless, defiant, curious, brave, intelligent young girl, but once a month she turned into a beast. A killer. She could really hurt people. And it slept inside her all year around, not always soundly; certainly not soundly right now. It didn't often sit right.