Chapter 1: Thriller
Summary: Harry is thrown back in time to the Marauder era after snooping around Grimmauld Place. He struggles to avoid changing the future at Dumbledore's request, but with the threat of Voldemort closing in on 1976 Hogwarts, the urge to take the future into his own hands may prove to be too much.
Features: Werewolf!Harry, no main slash or focused romance. Rated for language, violence, gore, and mature content. PostOotP. My goal is to make each chapter four or more pages long. Starts the summer after OotP.
Author's Note: My favorite type of review includes constructive criticism. I am always looking to improve my writing and expand my style.
Sing for the Moment
Chapter One: Thriller
By: Phantom of the Tech Booth
It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark
Under the moonlight you see a sight that almost stops your heart
You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it
You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes
[Thriller – Michael Jackson]
Harry Potter sat idly on a swing in the park just outside of Little Whinging, Surrey, kicking the patch of dirt under his feet as he swung gently back and forth. Our story begins here, with the rays of the full moon softly blanketing the slumped shoulders of the raven-haired teenager on the creaking swing. Hooking his thumbs in the chains of the swing, Harry let out a low, drunken belch and twisted the toe of his worn shoe into the dust beneath him, burying a glass shard from an old beer bottle he had shattered minutes earlier.
He leaned over to pick up the last bottle from the cardboard six-pack he had blatantly nicked from the liquor store, breaking off the cap and taking an especially long swig. He immediately spit out the froth in annoyance, glaring at the bottle before taking another defiant gulp. He turned the bottle in his hands, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He smirked as he examined the dark-tinted glass of the bottle, remembering the terrified expression on the face of the poor skinny fellow behind the counter of the liquor store. Harry had walked in, grabbed a pack of his favorite beer, and leveled a deadly glare at the young man before storming out, neglecting to pay.
He had been in a foul mood all summer and when he woke up to discover his wallet and his uncle gone, he had flown into a rage. The banister on the staircase suffered his wrath and the floor in front of the cupboard was littered with splintered wood from several broken spindles. Even Dudley had avoided him, not wanting to bear the same fate as the destroyed banister, while Petunia quietly cleaned up the mess and discretely hid the kitchen knives in a large flower pot outside. Vernon was no doubt at the bar, spending the rest of Harry's pocket money on liquid happiness. Knowing this, Harry dug out two huge bottles of fine scotch from Vernon's bedroom armoire, storing them under the loose floorboard in his tiny room. He paced around the room, building himself into a shaking rage, mulling over everything he put up with during his years at the Dursley residence.
After several desperate and angry shots of burning scotch, Harry managed to develop the same drunken anger his uncle was infamous for, and he ran off to the liquor store in a gale of fury to further drown his anger in the cheaper stuff: the traditional pack of beer he bought every few days to throw down his throat at the park. He ended each day at the park on the only swing that Dudley and his gang had not vandalized, brooding away and practicing his glare on innocent passersby. He supposed it was a form of indirect suicide, trying to drown his liver and asphyxiate his lungs with alcohol and cigarettes, but he could not bring himself out of his misery to give a damn.
He simply couldn't give a damn. About anything. Not anymore. Who bloody cared if his uncle beat the snot out of him tonight for taking his scotch? It's not like he wasn't numb with pain—and booze—anyway. Who cared if he was arrested for stealing beer? Dumbledore would get him out of trouble with the Muggle law. Who cared if Dudley fell down the stairs because there was no banister to help him balance? The fat whelp had plenty of blubber to cushion his fall.
Harry refrained from laughing at the thought of Dudley bouncing down the stairs. No need for the Order member watching him to think he was finally losing his mind. But then again, who cared if he did? As long as he could still hold a wand and fight Lord Snakeface, it didn't matter what his mental state was. The only thing anybody cared about was getting rid of the raving lunatic that was making rapid progress in the war. Nobody cared about getting help to the wallowing boy that was making steady progress in his slow suicide.
"They can all go fuck 'emselves," Harry muttered angrily, chucking the now empty bottle against a nearby tree. "I don't need 'em." He reached over to grab another but his hand was only met with air. "Figures," he growled at the empty cardboard box.
Using the chains of the swing to lug himself to his feet, Harry lumbered across the park and grumbled unintelligible ramblings to himself as he made his wobbly way down the hill. He decided to take the long way back to Number Four Privet Drive, a twisting path that went through a field behind the last row of houses, a forested area where couples liked to walk. With any luck, he would pass out in a ditch and have an excuse not to go home.
Can't hear the Order bitch and moan about me not making curfew if I'm unconscious, Harry thought, stumbling over a dirt mound.
"Some'un's movin' the ground, dammit..." he slurred. He tripped over his own feet and saw the moonlit ground rush up to meet him as he fell on his face. A distinct snort came from somewhere behind him.
"Go fuck yerself..." Harry grunted, rolling onto his back and glaring at the stars.
"If you're our savior, Potter, I think we're all fucked," the voice of Mundungus Fletcher floated across the air. Harry raised his middle finger in the man's general direction, not bothering to glance at the invisible guard. "C'mon, kid, gettup. Gotta get'chu back to them Muggles 'r Dumbles'll have my skin."
Harry felt two hands lifting him up from under his arms. As his feet were planted on the ground, a wave of nausea washed over him. He turned and regurgitated on the invisibility cloak that masked the man. With an almighty yell of disgust, Mundungus threw the teenager back, fumbling for his wand to clean up the mess. Catching sight of his vomit, which appeared to float in mid-air as Dung danced about, more nausea caught up to him and he fell to the ground, struggling to breathe between his laughter, fresh regurgitations, and anguished, drunken groans.
"Think 'at's funny, d'you?" Mundungus screeched, gagging on the smell that enveloped his cloak.
"Mhmm," Harry managed, spitting a trail of brown saliva out of his mouth from his position on the ground.
"Alright, fine 'en, you can just get'cherself home!" he responded, stepping back from the retching teenager. Though Harry couldn't see him, he could imagine a petulant look on the grown wizard's face, complete with folded arms and pouting lips.
"Will do," Harry agreed as happily as his dry-heaving allowed. "In the mornin'..." He flopped onto his stomach and settled down for sleep.
"Or what?" Harry challenged, cradling his whirling head.
"Or I'll sing."
Harry didn't dignify such a petty threat with a response. He closed his eyes and swallowed unevenly against the dizziness.
"I know how it feels when you're comin' to your crashing point after you been drinkin' all day, boy," Mundungus continued haughtily. "With all these colors and sounds swimming around in yer drunken mess of a brain, you wanna do nothin' but sleep. But you cain't sleep if I'm screechin' away with my lovely singin'-"
"Try me," Harry ground out, already at the end of his rope with this annoying man.
"'Cause this is THRIIILLERRR!" Dung's dreadful voice rang out into the still summer air "THRIIILLER NIIIIGHT! There ain't no second chance against the thing with FORTY EYES! " Harry would much sooner sleep under the bridge of a Muggle freeway than withstand this train wreck.
"Fine, fine!" Harry whined pitifully. Dung continued his song. "I SAID 'FINE,' GOD DAMMIT! SHUT UP!" Another wave of retching hit him and he rolled over to dry-heave painfully. "Shut up..." he repeated weakly in a defeated response to Dung's impossibly loud triumphant smirk.
"Get home, whelp," Dung said almost gently, pulling Harry to his feet again and nudging him in the right direction. "You'll be alright."
Harry shrugged his shoulder away from Dung's invisible hand and stumbled away with what little dignity he had left. It was lucky the moon was full tonight or he would have no hope what-so-ever of getting back to Number Four in the dark.
He couldn't seem to stay on the narrow path, so he opted for walking alongside it in the grass next to the small forest. A low rumble reached his pounding ears, and he glared up at the clear sky, expecting to see rain clouds. Spotting nothing, he filed it away as a motor car with a bad muffler in the distance. His pace quickened as he fell more than walked down a hill and soon he couldn't hear Dung's heavy footsteps behind him. His annoyance slipped; he was glad that somebody finally held enough confidence in their savior to let him walk home alone, even if it was an irresponsible crook.
Harry had traveled this way plenty in his younger years to avoid Dudley. It was a long way to the suburban neighborhood on this winding detour that would put off Big D and his hefty gang without fail. He still had another half a mile to go before he reached the first street, which would leave only ten minutes of walking to get to the Dursley residence.
The rumble sounded again, this time louder. He hesitated: it wasn't from the road ahead. It was definitely originating to his left, in the forest. This was no faulty vehicle, it was an animal! It was a growl or moan of some sort. He tried to make his clumsy steps silent as he listened intently. There it was again! It was much closer and there was a pining in the creature's throat, accompanied by a thrashing of leaves.
The image of a dog, a big, black, scruffy dog with playful eyes, entered his mind. His heart beat wildly, thumping against his ribcage painfully, and he found himself straying from the side of the path and making his way toward the sound. Halfway there, he stopped himself, shaking sense into his clouded head. You drunken dolt, this thing is huge! he thought after a ferocious growl brought fear thundering back into his heart. Bloody hell, what is it? Gotta be bigger than a dog... He stepped away from the forest. He wanted nothing to do with whatever was behind those trees.
He looked back, trying to spot footprints in the grass that would give away Dung's location. His voice caught in his throat as he whispered,
"Dung?" No reply.
"Mundungus?" his raspy speech climbed an octave in his nervousness, but he dared not raise his voice above a whisper.
Something was not right. A rustle of leaves announced movement to his left and he gripped his wand with white knuckles. Suspicion of another Ministry trick crossed his mind, but he knew the Ministry was groveling at his feet after their stupidity was revealed last month. They weren't trying to get him expelled anymore; no, if this was a trick, it was up Voldemort's sleeve.
He didn't move for a few seconds, straining his ears to pick up some clue as to what this animal was: magical or Muggle? A jumble of defensive spells darted across his mind, but in his drunken state he could not grasp a decent spell in particular. A definite growl arose and suddenly a dark shadow shot out of the forest, barreling straight for him. The moonlight showed bared fangs, pointy ears, and scraggly, gray fur with patches missing. Though he had been half-expecting a trap set by Voldemort, nothing could have prepared him for the realization of what was bounding toward him:
'Cause this is thriller, thriller night
And no one's gonna save you from the beast about to strike
You know it's thriller, thriller night
You're fighting for your life inside a killer, thriller tonight
[Thriller – Michael Jackson]
Story Recommendation: Web of Lies, by Star Polaris. After GoF, Harry is feeling depressed. Seeing how the Dursley are treating him, Dumbledore decides to take him in. To what lengths will the Headmaster go to ensure their safety? COMPLETE.