(1941-07-02) Not a Werewolf...Surely Not
Details for Not a Werewolf…Surely Not
Summary: Samira is summoned to tend to Oberon's bird-peck wound. Everything seems to be going so well until he transforms.
Date: Saturday, July 2, 1941
Location: Lestrange Flat, Horizont Alley
Plot: Zoanthropy Epidemic
Related: Who's a Pretty Bird?, A Dangerous Oath

"Samira, you came." Oberon stands in the doorway of the flat, bearing a momentary look of mild surprise. He steps aside, inviting his guest inside with a sweep of his arm. "Father keeps this place for when he visits the city. Since I've come of age, he lets me use it now." Oberon is dressed casually, in house slippers, trousers, and a billowy poet's shirt made of light silk. His right hand is wrapped in a strip of plain cloth, spots of red soaking through the back.

The flat is spacious and lavish, with fine furniture of leather and polished wood, thick carpets, and glass cases showing off a variety of treasures and trinkets. The glass in the cases is etched around the edges with protective runes.

Samira peeks up at Oberon from under the hood of her cloak. Though it is a seasonably warm evening, the girl finds the breeze a bit cool for her liking. She crosses the threshold, stepping past him with her head bowed. But her eyes linger on the bandaged hand as she passes. Turning to face him, standing just out of reach, she says, "Again you've been hurt?"

Oberon chuckles as he shuts the door behind Samira. "I live an active life," he explains. "Had a run-in with a mad bird. I really didn't feel like explaining it to my father or the healers at St. Mungo's. So I contacted you. You will help me, won't you?" Though the words have the cadence of a question, the tone is more of a command.

Samira blinks at the mention of a mad bird. Stories of other encounters with uncommon creatures have flitted throughout the Mysticked District. But Oberon commands her attention in this moment. The girl nods in immediate acquiescence. "Of course, Oberon. Always. We are friends, yes? Knights." Unclasping her cloak, she sets it on a claw by the door. This evening, she wears a simple yet elegant little dress of pale green silk.

Oberon nods solemnly. "Aye, Knights." Then he perks up into a smile, "And friends, of course. Come, have a seat in the parlour. I'm going to have some firewhiskey. Care for a glass?" He directs Samira to one of the lavish couches, while diverting himself toward the liquor cabinet.

Samira peeks up at him with a soft smile. "Thank you. Yes." She drifts as directed to the couch and settles with graceful ease. She draws her wand and sets it on the coffee table. "You said it was trouble with a mad bird?" She slips out of her ballet flats and tucks her stockinged feet beneath herself, curling up a bit upon the couch.

Oberon opens the cabinet with his wand and takes out the bottle. They're technically old enough to drink, but somehow it still feels naughty without his father here to give permission. "That's right," he says, bringing the whole bottle over with two glasses, which he sets down on the coffee table as he sits beside Samira. "Bloody insanity. Anyhow, it's not bad. Just a patch-up, I'm sure." He unwraps the cloth, displaying two wounds on the back of his hand where the flesh has been torn. They are scabbed over, but already the skin around them in swollen and red.

Samira's gaze settles on the wounds. Her eyes flit back up at Oberon's features, ever watchful - cautious - but then she leans to examine his hand. Delicate fingertips lift his hand, turning it this way and that. It has been at least a day since he'd received them. "Yes. Just a patch-up." She takes up her wand and lets the tip hover over his hand. Though she doesn't speak, his hand grows warm. Warmer. Hot. But then, like a candle blown out with a little breath, it cools. The successful silent-casting of her healing spell brings a pleased smile to Samira's lips.

Oberon chortles quietly as the holes in his hand seal themselves up as if they were never there. Even the inflammation has vanished. "Show-off." He pops the stopper on the firewhiskey bottle and fills the two glasses about half-full. Handing one to Samira and keeping the other, he clinks his glass to hers. "Well done. To true wizardry. No mudblood will ever compare." With that pleasant toast, he gulps down a swig of the powerful liquor.

Samira can't quite help but look like a pleased little kitten. Tucking her wand away, she then leans to take up her glass of firewhisky. Clink. She smiles up at him before taking a quick, but deep draught of her own - not quite tossing it back, but it's no sip either. And she simply smiles. This isn't her first taste of firewhiskey. Nor her second. "Tha-" Her voice comes in a hoarse squeak. Flushing, she clears her throat. "Thank you, Oberon."

It would seem there will be no bruised wrists tonight. Having come so swiftly to his aid, the flat set along Horizont Alley will be a peaceful place of amiable conversation. But as the murky gloom of the sky continues to darken with the setting sun, no stars appear. Lamps along the alley cast their wavering glow across the cobblestone streets, illuminating the way for witches and wizards heading to and fro about their business.

A single drop falls from the sky. But many more soon follow until a light drizzle falls steadily from the ominous darkness above. A shrill scream pierces the calm of the night. Within the flat, objects thud and others shatter. Something hits the door. Frantic hands rattle the handle violently until a diminutive girl bursts forth in a panicked flurry.

Samira stumbles to her knees on the wet cobblestones, scraping them in the process. Her breath comes labored with sheer terror as she scrambles to her bare feet. Without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she takes off down the street.

A massive beast with gleaming yellow eyes stalks slowly out of the flat. Head lowered and muzzle wrinkled with its teeth bared in a snarl, it pursues its prey. As she takes off down the street, it leaps after her. Its dark coat glistens under the light London drizzle. Though the girl hurtles down the street, the wolf quickly catches up. As Samira dashes past, the witches and wizards on the street pause to watch her and then to stare in shock at the enormous wolf chasing her. Surely, it is too large to be a normal wolf.

It’s like a nightmare. Samira tries again and again to scream. But she can do nothing but gasp for air as she runs. The low growl the scrape of claws is so close behind her. Outcries lift in their wake. But none fast enough to help. HELP. She tries to scream but she can only wheeze as her chest burns for more oxygen.

The red jet of a stunning spell shoots after them. But instead of hitting the loping beast, it hits Samira square between the shoulder blades. She falls hard, rolling with her momentum.

The wolf is upon her at once, teeth about to close around the girl’s throat, when it catches the movement of a constable and another wizard approaching. It grows, baring its teeth at them, protecting its kill. A STUPEFY lifts in unison and two jets of light shoot at the wolf. But the beast darts to the side and instead, both streams of light hit the girl instead. Again. Though the creature would protect its prey, it knows when it is outnumbered and leaps off into the darkness down a narrow alleyway.

The constable should give chase. But three stunning spells have hit that tiny girl. And so instead, blue sparks shoot up in the air and arc in the direction of the wolf’s escape. Then running to the unconscious girl’s side, the constable kneels and revives her.

More constables aparate into the area. While most take off in pursuit of the wolf, another comes to kneel at Samira’s side. The girl soon sits dazed and trembling with a blanket around her shoulders under a magical shield against the rain as two constables kneel on either side of her. The female constable introduces herself simply as Jane. In a soft soothing voice she says, “Fear not, little one. We’re here to help. Just tell us your name. How old are you?”

Still trembling, Samira tries to speak. But she can only draw quick, sharp breaths, still gasping for air. The other constable frowns in concern. “We’d better get her to St. Mungo’s.” He puts an arm around behind her shoulders and scoops her up with an arm under her knees.

Though there have been many strange creatures running rampant through the Mysticked District and other wizarding hubs, the appearance of a wolf creates a tension among both the MLE and onlookers that was not present for the others. Whispers flit through the gathered crowds. Werewolf? Surely not. The moon is only in its first quarter. It cannot be a true werewolf. Surely not. But what if these transformations are related to lycanthropy? The constables move quickly to disburse the crowd, less a panic grow.

However, with a transformed wolf (a werewolf?) loose on the streets of the Mysticked District, a panic will be hard to prevent.

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