Rating of R.

I do not own the characters, JKR does. I simply borrow them.

"...Greyback specializes in children...Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards."
-Remus Lupin, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, 334

What if, when Remus Lupin was bitten, Greyback stole him off into the middle of the night. What if he was never found. What if he never went to Hogwarts and never met three people that could change his life forever. What if he met one of them. Six years too late. This is that what if story.

Beta read by ErikaDominica2790.

Blood Chronicles.

-

The unblinking profile of a small, battered and bloodstained four-year-old girl looked up into shocked eyes everywhere from the front page of the Daily Prophet. Sirius sucked in a sharp breath, willing his silver eyes away from the scarcely moving photograph that reminded him of the real world that he'd be a part of in six short months.

His eyes shied away from the photograph that seemed to be taken straight out of a horror movie only to scan down the article and land on another unsettling snapshot. The backdrop was that of a cloudy night sky that nearly concealed the figure captured in it.

The mysterious shape was unidentifiable. Sirius had to squint his eyes at an impossible degree in order to distinguish the shadowy outline from the background. An icy chill crept down his spine, steeling his breath away, and making his eyes grow large as dinner plates as he drank in the nameless person's rough silhouette and resplendent golden eyes.

"Hello. Earth to Sirius." A singsong voice bellowed in his ear.

Sirius jumped and whirled around, smacking James Potter in the face with the unfurled newspaper that he'd been reading not moments before. James stumbled away from his attacker, nearly tripping over his own two feet and settled for glaring at a safe distance.

"Fine," he muttered after blinking twice and regaining his composure, arms crossed defensively across his chest. "Be that way, forget I even asked you if you wanted any toast for breakfast."

James huffed and made a show of stomping to the other side of the table, seating himself none too gracefully opposite his friend and regarding his half eaten oatmeal with the look of a sulking five-year-old. Sirius watched him; sterling eyes a cocktail of amusement and disbelief that his seventeen-year-old companion could still act like a moping child and still have all of his manly dignity intact.

He had just opened his mouth to reply as such when his eyes caught sight of the anonymous stranger with the golden eyes again. His snappy retort died in his throat and his mouth closed slowly. Sirius' full attention returned to the haunting pictures on the front page.

"Si? Are you okay?"

He could distantly register James' voice and shook himself mentally. His gaze snapped up to James' uncertain face, now void of all childish play and grinned mischievously.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just trying to decide whether or not I should hit you with the paper again."

James' eyes widened with mock fear and his gaze shifted to where Sirius' hand was slowly rolling up the newspaper.

"Yeah...Well...Oh, would you look at the time," He cried, jabbing dramatically at his wrist. "It's nine o' clock."

Sirius cocked an eyebrow and continued his slow, steady crease of the paper. "So? What's at nine?"

"You know...Nine o' clock's when I...Leave?"

"Is that supposed to be a question or a statement?"

"Um...A-"

Not even waiting for an answer, the paper came down and landed with a reverberating smack.

"Sirius. Bloody hell, that hurt."

-

The rain pounded out a primitive beat. No secure rhythm insured, only the uneven throbbing that sounded as if someone were pouring a cart full of rice on a clay roof. Lightning provided the only light since the angry, billing, black thunder clouds hid the shinning stars and burning half moon from view. Thunder rang throughout the velvety heavens, sending tiny wild life scrambling for shelter.

Glassy, black water puddles rippled as booted feet splashed carelessly off of the beaten path and onto one of their own. It was a long and steep walk through the uncontrollable undergrowth.

The heavily battered door opened silently and the owner of the mud and blood slicked boots crept inside. He shook dirty water droplets from his hair and shrugged his soaked cloak to the floor. The scratchy material tangled around his feet and he'd barley closed the door when he was slammed into it violently.

Hot, rancid breath that smelt heavily of whiskey and rotting meat danced across his sweaty face. Dagger like claws pierced through the thin textile of his clothing, pierced straight through his pale skin to bury themselves deep into the very center of his being.

"Happy to see you too," he growled lowly and struggled to try and free himself from the vice like grip. The brutal grasp tightened until a trickle of blood seeped down the cloth covered length of his arm. A face livid with fury swam into his line of vision. "Get off me Greyb-"

He was silenced by the resounding slap of thick paper against his face.

"You were seen," raged the furious man that held him pinned against the door, waving the paper madly around, spittle and blood flying from his mouth.

He yanked his captive up by his collar so that his feet were off the ground. His victim's gaze remained cool as he snatched the paper and slowly moved his eyes from the angry face before him to the article that covered most of the front page. He scanned the column carefully and then thrust the ink smudged paper back into the other's grimy hand.

"Seen indeed," his voice was calm, camouflaging the deadly undertone. "It's a pity you don't know how to read that well; else you might know what the word unidentified means."

He was silenced again, this time not by a sharp blow, but by the intensity of the gaze that held him more successfully than any death grip ever could.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll shut up right now before I rip your fucking throat out," the rusty voice pulsed against his outer ear shell. He snorted, carefully meeting the cold glare with one of his own.

"Empty threat," the underdog muttered, his gaze wavering slightly before he met his captor's eyes straight on once more. "You're just jealous that I was out for a night of fun and left you here to take care of yourself."

The third time it was an actual strike that cut him off and sent his head snapping violently to the side, productively putting an end to his softly spoken speech. He spat the blood from his mouth and gradually turned to face forward again. A vivid trickle of blood streamed down from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

With mocking calmness he raised his hand and wiped the blood away; his own life fluid mixing with that of others' that had already been spilled on his hands and had etched black beneath his fingernails.

The older of the two men spun away harshly with an unbelievable amount of grace. The newsprint went scattering to the floor and the man with the foul breath pulled his claw like nails along the wall as he paced the perimeter of the small, earthy enclosure.

"That's hardly the point and you know it," he snarled, a distant gleam in his eyes suggested that he wasn't being entirely truthful. Although now free to move, his victim stayed with his back firmly pressed against the rough, wooden door. "We cannot risk you getting caught this far in the game. You're-" He broke off suddenly and clearly intended for the subject of conversation to be officially closed.

The man subdued against the door smirked and pushed himself away. He pulled the sweat and bloodstained tee shirt over his head and cleared his throat. When he spoke next, he had adopted his companion's rusty baritone only it held a whiny quality to it that the original certainly didn't have.

"Far too important and I cannot risk you getting caught," he picked up where the other's train of speech had died and placed his hands on his hips like a scolding mother. "And besides, if you weren't around Remus who else would you expect to cut up my pancakes and tuck me in every night? Not to mention how would I ever be able to dress myself? God forbid I go to the bathroom without you there to hold my hand-"

His breath was stolen from his lungs as the bulky body tackled him to the floor. Thin wrists were captured and held firmly above his head. Unforgiving claws sliced his skin. Remus bit his lip. He'd be dammed if he lost it to the alpha male.

"Where's your respect? I taught you better than that."

Nails that were more like claws and felt like dagger blades cut down his exposed arms. The reward was a gasp of pain; the body beneath him withered in an attempt to escape the smoldering pain racing through his bloodstream.

"You should be grateful to me; I didn't have to take you in. I didn't have to give you this gift."

Sharp canines glided over the vulnerable skin of Remus' throat.

"You should be thanking me..." He trailed off, his lingering voice vibrating against trembling flesh. Without warning he growled, tore though the tender skin, and tugged.

The form beneath him screamed and desperately tried to pitch the destructive body away. He let go with a snap of jaws and supported his weight with his elbows, gazing down with emotionless golden orbs and lapping up the bright blood until the boy's screams faded away into stifled whimpers. Remus braced himself for another assault and tensed instinctively when bloodied teeth traced over his throat again.

Outside the brutal storm raged on, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere inside the nature made hideaway.

"Please," he pleaded, playing for time, and trying to put a stopper to the tears flowing down his face. "Stop, you're hurting me. Dad..."

Remus' voice trailed away.

Luminous eyes narrowed and lips tainted with blood and jagged after a week's worth of neglect rose deafly. Remus bit his tongue and prayed that he hadn't just spoken what freely ran through his mind. He prayed that he was imagining the murderous glint that shone in the bottomless eyes fixed solely on him.

He'd never been permitted to call his maker by the title of Dad. The last time that Remus had let it slip had been when he was seven. He could still recall the gruesome lesson that had followed that would make sure it would never happen again.

Fenrir Greyback had never been forgiving to those who walked the line when it came to his laws.

The patter of wild, irregular rain thundered the chorus of falling rice. It did its best to muffle the screams from inside the clay walled hideaway. Remus' raw pleads never reached the ears of the people of Hogsmead, no more than two miles out of the dense cover of trees.

-

Combs with savagely broken teeth were scattered all over the seventh year Gryffindor boys' bathroom. Bottles of shampoo, hair shine, hair grease, and of Merlin's Beard's Magic Hair Flattening Cream (guaranteed to make your hair lie flat for twenty-four hours or your money back) laid haphazardly among the broken combs. Their gooey substances oozed out onto the floor in a rainbow of greens, yellows, blues, and pinks.

James Potter stood in front of the counter top sink, his elbows propped up on the marble surface. His face hidden shamefully in cupped hands. The shower behind him was still dripping with a constant rhythm and a patch of steam had been wiped clean from the mirror in front of him. The words 'James loves Lily' covered every inch of the mirror that had not been wiped clean in order for him to see his highly dismal profile.

He either could not hear or chose to ignore the click of the bathroom door that announced that he was no longer alone.

"James, what are you-" Three footsteps sounded, but the fourth never came.

Sirius' voice broke off when his footing crossed with a puddle of yellow gel that sent him slipping for stable balance.

After a short battle with the slippery tile, Sirius fell on his back. With a groan, the aggravated teen pushed himself up and carefully made his way over to James, who still hadn't looked up from his stationed position. After another nearly fatal fall, credit to the green concoction spilled over a wide range of the floor, Sirius finally straightened up and stood beside a still silent James.

"Um...Jim?" Sirius prodded his shoulder experimentally with a forefinger. "Can you hear me?"

"Ifantmymongyblack."

"Translation, por favor?" He sighed dryly.

James separated his head form his gunk smeared palms shortly.

"I want my money back." He resumed his stance of silence.

"In order to get money back you need to actually give it to begin with."

James groaned and stretched his hand out blindly, his fingers skating clumsily and heavily over the counter top until they felt out a fat, white jar whose powder blue lid rolled and fell with a clatter to the floor. He thrust the jar into Sirius' face and then retired back to his hands. Silver eyes observed the jar for a second from all angles before he set it back down with a faint click as the jar met the marble surface.

"Still not following."

James groaned again and pointed an accusing finger in the general direction of the fat, white jar.

"Right, I got that much."

James gave a thumbs up and pointed to his head where a continuous war was being fought between James' unruly, rebellious hair and the pink gel in the stout, white jar.

"Oh," Sirius said dramatically, not as if he'd figured out his friend's hair problem but the very answer to life itself. "I...Still don't get it..."

James' hands went into overdrive as he frantically pointed to the jar of Merlin's Beard's Magic Hair Flattening Cream, to his head, to the mirror, and then to just about everywhere else in between. In fear of getting hit in the face, Sirius jumped away and watched from a distance as James pointed at all sorts of random and various things. His brow furrowed with concentration as he tired to decipher the mystery that was James' apparent new language.

Then, after only a minute more, realization dawned on him.

"Oh," Sirius said again. As he spoke James froze mid-point toward the shower door and looked up at him. "Well, James, you could have just told me that the alien chickens stole your mother's bra in order to perform some evil clown ritual in English, honestly. I thought you had something important to say...My bad."

Sirius started toward the door and James didn't say anything. Slowly, he lowered his face back into his hands and cursed the deities for giving him such God awful hair.

"By the way," Sirius' voice drifted in from the dorm that was adjacent to the disastrous bathroom in need of some major cleaning attention. "Lily's waiting downstairs and she said if you don't hurry up that she's leaving for Hogsmead without you."

Casual footfalls marked his exit and James groaned once more and shook his head.

He really needed to find some new friends.

-

He strolled casually down the quiet cobblestone road that served as the main street in Hogsmead. His eyes scanned the small groups of socializing wizards and witches that were clustered together outside of the brightly lit display windows of various shops for the perfect victim.

Remus sighed and made his way over to a small group of witches gathered together in front of one of the clothing shops. For a while he stayed a fair distance from them, pretending to take an interest in the new styles of robes in the warmly lit, wide window while he waited for the perfect moment.

The perfect moment came not nearly three minutes later when a man passed by who they all turned to trade salutations with. Perfect. He moved like the water in a summer stream, sailing effortless past the five of them and into a back alley a few stores down. Remus double checked over his shoulder before he deemed it safe and slipped three small leather bags that were tied tightly with string at the mouth out from their hiding spot up his sleeve.

With a snort, he emptied their combined amounts into his palm. When all was weighed and accounted for he slipped the money into his own pouch and discarded the three empty money bags.

Like taking candy from a baby.

It was only natural that he'd be good at it by now. Seeing how Remus had had plenty of practice since he was six-years-old. And now, just passing the mark of his seventeenth birthday, he'd be damned that, if after eleven years of practice and strategy, he'd be caught. It was simply unheard of.

Suddenly Remus fought the urge to wince as a searing, blazing hot pain shot through his neck and shoulder. He opted to tie his scarf more tightly and securely around his damaged skin instead. He ignored the scratch of uncaring cloth against raw skin and juggled his half full money bag between his bare hands, weighing not only the bag but also his options.

He'd put in a good days work and had more than enough gold in his pocket to show for his worthiness. Then Greyback's words came back to haunt him like a slap in the face.

Remus remembered the warning to return with a pouch fit to burst and that if he didn't he could count himself in for another lesson. Completely free of charge. His fingers drifted absentmindedly to his healing neck and the visible reminders he knew he still bore.

Golden eyes traveled down to his hand and the bag it held. After a visual count he decided that he already had half of what was needed in order to go home without the fear of another lesson hanging over him like a thunder cloud. He could finish the job with one last good catch. Now all he needed to do was find the right target.

He re-hid his own money bag. Remus wasn't fool enough to believe that he was the only pickpocket around on a lazy Wednesday afternoon, and he soon found himself walking once more down the main cobblestone street. The witches', whose money now mixed with many other of his victims', chatted care freely. They were still unsuspecting that they'd just lost their weeks pay to feed their families. This time he was in pursuit of much bigger game instead of petty weekly pay.

Let the hunt begin.

-

"I swear to God, Black, you're worse than a girl!"

"Jim, I don't think any thing's worse than a girl on a shopping spree."

"Yeah, well they may have just found some tough competition," James muttered and slumped back in the navy blue fabric chair that he'd occupied for the past twenty minutes.

Sirius' brow creased as he compared two well designed winter heavy cloaks to his frame in front of the wall length mirror of Twilfitt and Tattings in Hogsmead.

"Well, it's not my fault that some of us don't care if we look like shit or not."

For a minute all was quiet except for the faithful ticking of the wall mounted clock just slightly to the right of James' head.

"Hey," James started slowly. "I don't look like shit."

The other raven haired boy snorted.

"I never said you did."

Sirius at last decided on a slim cut cloak that was dark in color and expensive on the price tag. He laid it down none to carefully on the counter top and rested his weight against the solid surface as the curly, red haired witch behind the register rang up the price. Her eyes grew wide when she saw the final amount and timidly told him it. Sirius shrugged, dug around in his pocket, and then dumped out a mound of gold on the counter.

When his new purchase was paid for and wrapped away safely in a bag, he and James exited the shop. Sirius' money bag was none the lighter.

Outside, golden eyes grew larger by each passing second. Remus moved away from the window of Twilfitt and Tattings and watched as the two boys talked and laughed until they disappeared into the Three Broomsticks. A slow, sly smile started to tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Perfect…Simply perfect…"

-