Amaryllis

7

It’s two hours later that Harry realises he’s most definitely not alright. The sun has set now, the sky outside an inky blue, the dark impenetrable. The features of the room sink into shadow more and more with every minute that passes, and Harry feels like he's drowning in the darkness, like he's floating in negative space and nothing around him is real.

He's shivering from both pain and cold now, fingernails digging half-moons into the skin of his calves. From time to time, his entire body cramps, making tears spring into his eyes out of their own volition. His skin is so cold he can barely feel where the tattered blanket is touching his shoulders, fingers gone numb where they're curled around Harry's legs.

When the moon finally comes out properly, glowing so bright in the sky it even shines down on Harry's miserable form, he feels it down to his bones. They shift, somehow, creak and hurt and move restlessly underneath his skin. The sound of his blood overwhelms him once again, heart jackrabbiting against his ribcage. He doesn't remember any of what he's feeling from his first transformation; those sensations have been almost pleasant in comparison, soft tingling on his skin and a whole new world opening in front of him. Now, his skin burns and itches so bad he wants to let his claws come out, rip and tear until it's all gone.

Breathing deeply, Harry rests his head against the wall. He's rocking back and forth slightly, his body's unconscious reaction to the onslaught of pain. He's holding on to himself with everything he has, refusing to let the wolf take over before he absolutely has to. Maybe that's what's tearing him apart, bit by bit. He doesn't care.

It's building every minute, the pressure inside him, like he's too big for his own skin. He's growling quietly, making sounds almost like the purring of some bizarre, gigantic cat. It makes him angry, hearing it, so angry.

He's not sure where it's coming from, anymore; surely he wouldn't torture himself like this?

He snaps at nothing with his teeth, long and sharp as they collide with the frigid air. He can feel his claws growing in, too, sinking deeper and deeper into flesh. He doesn't pull his hands away, instead focuses on the pain, on how it grounds him, tethers him, pleases him.

He's so, so alone down here. He's sent them all away, told them to leave him alone – why had he done that? What had been the point?

He's so alone, so alone wherever he goes. He doesn't even have a pack, does he, doesn't have an Alpha because his Alpha didn't want him. All he has are three strangers, kind, kind strangers that want to help him but what if they're not enough or what if they're too much what if he kills them what if—

Harry blinks, face sweaty, breathing ragged. He's having trouble forming coherent thoughts, thoughts that don't revolve around prey orhunting or pack. His claws are still extended, long and pale and so utterly inhuman. He knows that, if he looked in a mirror, his eyes would be yellow.

He doesn't quite know why he does it – it's not him as Harry and it's not him as the wolf. It's some intrinsic need, something deep in his gut that's settled there and won't leave, and he's becoming too exhausted to resist. Calmly, evenly, he raises his head, straightens his neck, and howls.

The sound reverberates inside his skull, every ounce the terrifying howl of a wolf in a Grimm fairytale, just before the pack moves in and tears a man to the ground. He howls and howls, and thinks he can recognise something human in the sound; he pours the pain, the cold, the exhaustion all in it, and strangely, it helps.

Harry howls again. The wolf's come closer now, right there in his subconscious, ready to break out and claw its way through the stone wall of the basement. It amazes him, the fact that something so raw, so wild, so genuine can come out of his mouth. He howls for long seconds, screaming his throat raw with everything that he couldn't possibly say.