Who: Aaron Pryce and Peter Pettigrew Where: Diagon Alley When: Sunday, 14th September 1979; near curfew. What: Aaron is angry. Peter pays the price. Rating: PG-13 Warnings: usual Aaronwarnings; blood and swears. Status: Complete log.
The night before the full moon. More importantly, the night after the attack, the night after those fucking witches had hurt his Tabby, the night that Millicent Bagnold had all but dared him to make a move.
Well. She'd get her wish, and they'd get their comeuppance, and he'd get his fucking blood, he needed it tonight. Needed the hot strong taste of it in his throat, the screams of his prey, the feel of flesh giving way beneath his hands, beneath his jaws. He needed an outlet for the rage that had been burning within him since Tabby was injured, and wizards would be the perfect outlet.
The night before the full moon; he was closer to wolf than man, moving more sinuously, almost by instinct, but he was still human. Wolves had advantages over humans, in speed and strength and their sheer ability to do damage, and wizards had advantages over him, with their magic and their oh-so-superior airs and graces, but Aaron wasn't about to let some stupid piece of wood and fake-Latin words cow him.
Wizards. A bunch of sanctimonious, blustering idiots who cared more about their own skins than the people they claimed they were trying to support, in Aaron's experience, and if all went well tonight, then he'd be ridding the world of one more stupid, self-absorbed, jumped-up man in a dress who tried to pretend that calling them robes didn't make it girly, and that shortcuts and patch jobs were any substitute for good, honest work you did with your own two hands.
Aaron did so love doing things with his own hands, after all. The hot rush of blood over them, the sticky copper-tang as it dried, the feel of muscle and bone giving way beneath them -- all of it, perfect, perfect carnage that sang to the beast he was getting more and more comfortable with letting out.
He'd been stalking all day, loitering outside the place where his target's family -- because the father had died, oh so sadly, and the ever-dutiful son had rushed to the mother's side -- snarling at anyone who tried to get him to move on. He wasn't obviously a werewolf -- you really couldn't tell when they were in human form, not unless you knew the little cues to pick up on -- and he'd moved around the street enough, always keeping an eye on the place, that he was still there when it came close to curfew. Staying afterwards might be problematic, but Aaron had learned how to use the darkness to his advantage, and slid back into the shadows, all but unseen.
He waited, watchful.
His father was dead. His mother was completely devastated. Two of his best friends were in really bad shape after having to face a bunch of psychopaths who had decided to blow up Hogwarts for fun. All of this was weighing on his mind when his mother had stammered out something about needing to write out notifications to the family about his father's death, Peter hadn't hesitated at all to go out and get her supplies, even if it only occurred to his afterward that she wouldn't really have any idea how to use the quill, ink, and parchment papers that he had purchased. His mind was grinding slow and haltingly, but in the end, he decided that it would be simpler just to drop the things he'd gotten off at his own flat and go out to a 'normal' store in order to get the sort of things that his mother would be used to. It was pretty close to curfew, as it was, anyway. Peter could already see the sun starting to wane in the distance, the odd glow of dusk settling over the alley as he lifted a hand to ruffle his hair. By the time he was halfway up the alley, Peter had started to look less like a human male and more like a disheveled lump that could have easily blended into any crowd that it was dropped into. Sadly, with the hour, there was no crowd here to blend into, and it was only Peter and a few scant stragglers who seemed to be heading towards apparation points.
Perfect.
Aaron waited until the stragglers had moved out of the way, creeping forward in the shadows, and then placed himself carefully, staggering out of the alley with the loose-limbed awkwardness of the drunk or ill. Peering at Peter, he coughed once and said hopefully, "hey, man, spare change?"
Peter paused at the question and the appearance of an individual whose appearance tugged briefly as the back of his mind but refused to be placed. All of the red flags in his head went up. He was alone, in the middle of the alley, near dark, but the appearance of the other man, haggard and slightly emaciated with a slight stagger in his walk, was enough to catch Peter's attention. While his paranoia was what all his sense were urging him to follow, in the end, Peter just couldn't do it. This world needed a little more understanding as it was, and as much as that thought made him sound like Dedalus, he was willing to give this man the benefit of the doubt. Offering him a friendly smile, Peter nodded and pulled a mixture of galleons, sickles, and pounds from his pocket, offering the man one of the galleons and a few of the pound notes. "Bloody curfew. Most of the places are closing up around here. But the rest of London's better suited these days."
"God bless you, man, you're good folk."
Aaron grinned to himself; God had nothing to do with this, nothing to do with Aaron, not anymore. And as Peter held out the money, Aaron made as if to take it, before digging his hand -- and fingernails -- deep into Peter's arm, twisting to get him off-balance, all the uncertainty and awkwardness gone from his gait now.
"Good folk die," he hissed, snarling.
The sudden twist of his arm and the flash of pain that ran up the length of the limb were enough to have Peter's survival instincts kick in. His mind quickly scanned through all of the knowledge that he had. This wasn't anyone that he recognized, but the words that he was hearing were enough to send his mind spiraling towards the Death Eaters. But why would they target him? Why would they send ONE person who wasn't even hiding their face to target him randomly in the middle of the street? No, this wasn't right. This wasn't... And then something struck him as the man's appearance flashed in front of his eyes again, and it clicked where he had seen something like it before. Clearly, not nearly as worn, but still... Oh, god.
"You're one of them," Peter's voice cracked slightly. "One of Greyback's."
"Such a clever little wizard," Aaron said, his tone something between mocking and a full-throated growl. He dug his fingernails deeper into Peter's arm, twisting it up behind his back, his other hand closing over the wizard's throat. Not tight, not enough to impede his breathing. Just there. He leaned in close, until his lips were almost touching Peter's ear, and whispered, "clever enough to live, I wonder?"
As it became harder for him to get oxygen into his lungs, Peter moved his free arm carefully, thankful that this man, whoever he was, hadn't snagged his dominant arm, and he was still free to pull his wand from his pocket and turn it back on the wand behind him, silently casting an Incendio at the man's legs.
Fire. Oh, he was a clever one, wasn't he? That was going to have to be fixed.
Snarling, Aaron moved his hand from Peter's throat to his wrist, squeezing hard until he heard a snap; at the same time, he bent his head and sank his teeth into the flesh where neck met shoulder, twisted his head viciously to tear at the flesh, and shoved Peter away from him, bending to slap out the flames licking at his trousers.
"That," he said, his voice even more of a growl now, the words somewhat garbled by the mouthful of bloody flesh he'd torn from Peter's shoulder, "was a very stupid thing to do."
Pain shot through Peter's body in several areas as he impacted, face first, with the ground. Staggering from the position, Peter moved his other hand to take his wand, his mind staggering briefly before it was able to call up the severing charm, aiming his wand sloppily at the werewolf's chest as he struggled to stand or at least push himself away from the offending individual. But with his wand in one hand and without the support of the other, he was pretty much stuck on the ground. So, instead of falling back on a spell, as soon as the man was close enough, Peter reared up with his leg instead and kicked his foot up right into an area that all men dread the idea of getting kicked in.
Aaron roared, spitting blood in Peter's face. Oddly, the pain seemed to inflame more than incapacitate him; leaning down to twist a hand in Peter's hair, he dragged the wizard back to his feet, his free hand snatching the wand and throwing it behind him, out of the way.
"I'm going to make you scream," he said in a low, growling snarl, digging his fingers into the wound his teeth had left and dragging, tearing the skin further. "And if you're very lucky, I'll kill you before I start to eat you."
A scream ripped from Peter's throat as the other man's fingers tore through his skin. God, he was stupid. He was so stupid. Anzhelina had been right. He was too nice for his own good, and it was going to be what got him killed. Twisting his body, Peter swung his free and not yet injured arm at the other man, kicking his one of his legs to try and free himself. If anyone had been around to witness the display, Peter would have looked like a headless chicken, bleeding profusely and flailing about with no true direction in the actions. "Let me go," Peter choked out. "What did I ever do to you?"
The question was irrational. He knew it was. But it was the only thing that was crossing his mind right now that he could vocalize. What had he ever done?
Aaron laughed, truly amused.
"What did you do? What did you do? Your whole fucking society is what you did, wizard! Your precious Minister for Magic, the Militant Millicent who's so tough against us big, bad puppies, she all but dared me to come out tonight, and you're the one paying the price. I do hope you'll let her know." He smiled, leaning in, catching Peter's arm and licking the blood that was smeared over his neck. "And if you don't, well. I'll just have to make more examples, won't I? And that would be so very sad, so many people being hurt just because you were too proud to tell the lovely Minister that because of her and because she hasn't caught those fucking vigilantes who hurt my Tabby, I'm going to do this to someone every week. Every week, you hear me? Someone gets mauled every week until the bitches who hurt my girl get what's coming to them. And," he added, growling low in his throat, "if you don't tell her, if I don't see her letting me know over those journal things, then it won't be mauling. It'll be death."
Millicent? The Minister? He was being attacked because the Minister had a hardline approach towards werewolves who decided that it was so much more fun to kill people than try and hold on to their humanity? As little sense as that made, Peter couldn't help but laugh as his reference to the vigilantes. Oh, the sweet irony of him getting part of what he wanted without even realizing. He wasn't about to voice this though, so he translated the weak, pained laugh into referencing the first argument, "So, what? I'm responsible for being born this way?" He asked, tears creeping into his eyes as he gave up the struggle for a moment, his arm too tired to flail. "I'm not more responsible for what I am than you are for what you are."
"That might well be true," Aaron said, twisting his hand tighter in Peter's hair. "Some people think all we're looking for is someone to blame. You want to know a secret?" he asked, the copper taste of blood in the back of his throat intoxicating enough that he licked Peter's neck again, teeth grazin along his skin. "I don't need anybody to blame, and if it hadn't been you, it would've been somebody else. This just kills two birds with one stone."
He shoved Peter to the ground, lifting his foot and placing it down on the injured wrist, not pressing. Not yet. But the threat was there.
"Do you think I can make you sing for me, little bird, before you die?"
Sing? Ha. "My voice isn't anything impressive," Peter drawled, blood loss obviously making him a little calmer than he had been.
Aaron laughed, and kicked him hard in the ribs.
"Sing, scream, I don't mind either way."
Peter laid there for a moment, not saying anything before turning his eyes up towards Aaron, narrowing them slowly through the fog that was being created by the seeping wounds, "Just looking for a bit of fun, then?" He asked, a vague amusement in his voice. Well, fuck. That was just his luck, wasn't it?
"Story of my life," Aaron said in a sing-song tone, grinning savagely down at Peter. "Just want to have fun."
"Frankly, I think you need a new hobby," Peter drawled, his eyes slipping closed as he rested his head against the ground. "Stamp collecting is always good."
"Fading out on me, are you?" Aaron scowled, taking a step back and frowning down at Peter. "You've got no stamina."
"I've got enough," Peter growled, lifting his head to judge the distance between them. Once he'd judged that there was enough, Peter shifted to pull his wand back towards him weakly, but made no move to use it as he turned his head down and concentrated. Destination, Determination, Deliberation. And with a POP and what would look, to Aaron, like him being sucked inward into a tiny hole, Peter was gone.
Aaron stared for a moment, and then let out a furious roar, a more bestial than human sound.
"You want to play it that way? Fine," he snarled. "Just for that, three die tonight."
He left the place quickly, bristling like an angry dog. There wasn't time to hang around and hope his prey would return; he had work to do.