Much of you guys have been wondering/asking for it and here it is: more of Little Red AKA the prequel. How the big bad wolf and little red came to be. Dedicated to my great friend Melissa aka FanofBellaandEdward for her birthday. One of two of her birthday gift stories.

I was/still am very very nervous for this prequel. it's always hard to do another spinoff when the original did so well. Hope you love it. This story will be spilt into 3 parts.


"smile with your teeth, darling.

do not be afraid to show the world that you would eat it whole."

-p.d

Big Bad Wolf: Part I

There was once a time he loathed the color red.

The color wasn't like pale, ice-blue which reminded him of his mother's eyes that only softened when they landed on him, shedding their usual frosty exterior. It wasn't like gold or silver, representation of power and security that once dripped from his fingertips. It wasn't like green, beauty and mystery wrapped into one.

Red was too loud, too obnoxious. The horrible stench of counts and lords that flooded his family's ballroom like cockroaches, excessive bourbon coloring their faces, heightening their laughter, clinging onto their clothes. The hollow warmth of women's flushed complexions as they fluttered around him like peacocks, all beauty, no taste. Latching onto his arms for another dance, another drink, another kiss if he'd be so bold. The color of hard liquor always pouring into his father's never-ending cup.

Before red was such a distasteful color. It soon became his best friend after that horrible night.

A man in black, skin frail and papery as a corpse, eyes the two beams of hellfire, power that matched those of legend, came for all their heads. Laughing morphed into screaming, dancing and flirting soon turned to running and falling as waves upon waves of broken glass-the chandeliers, the walls and mirrors-all exploded in a storm of crystal shards.

In the midst of the chaos, as he ran over to protect his mother, he was changed. Hands to sharp claws, skin to white fur, his mind a scattered mess of hunting and killing.

"Consider this payment," the man purred. "Your betrayal for your son's eternal misery."

His father, his power-hungry, ambitious father sank to his knees in horror. His hand reached to him as if he could find a shred of humanity in him. And ended up having his entire arm ripped clean off.

It was the first time he spilled blood. The first time he learned to admire the color, pouring from the wound like a sea of crimson. It wasn't loud. It wasn't obnoxious. It wasn't disgusting.

It was beautiful. It was mesmerizing. It was glorious.

Too blinded by the pain ripping through him, his father used the other to hold himself. Shock, fear, and the faintest trace of disgust shone in his eyes. "Dra-"

He pounced.

His father, the roaches, the peacocks-all slaughtered limb by limb, skin slashed and slit, dripping right red.

And he wanted more. More tearing, more ripping, more spilled red. An ocean of it.

The voice of reason was silenced as his appreciation for the thrill grew; the minds of man and animal converging as one.

He became the animal others of his kind immediately ran from, sensing the madness that wrapped around his body like a cloak. The creature fools with their bows and arrows closed in on when they think they have him vulnerable and cornered, only for the predators to become his prey. The beast that traveled from town to town, village to village, spreading deep, flinching fear into the hearts of the townspeople with tales of his sharp teeth and the innumerable body count he left in his wake.

Man, woman, all the same to him. All fools that strayed too far from the safe path. Who chose the wrong time to venture out into the woods during the nights the full was moon and called to him like a siren song. Whose pleas, prayers, cries all fell to deaf ears until skin became pink, pink became red, and red coated the snowy ground.

The man he was before, the former heir his father shaped and molded to achieve greatness would have possibly laughed at the irony. All his life he tried to strive for power and with the curse, he achieved. Before he may have laughed. Or perhaps be appalled. It didn't matter though.

Days bleed to months, months to years, years to decades, and decades to a century. Always hunting, always running, never changing. It's been so long, it was easier to imagine that those thoughts belonged to another man than himself.

One day he was trekking through the woods for food. This winter had been particularly harsh, an ongoing storm of thick snow and ice that kept the animals at bay, making it harder for him to gather food.

Eyes sharp, ears open, he made his way through a narrow path, and then came to a halt when spotted a fury tail disappearing behind a tree. Blood thrumming through his veins, he broke into a run, racing down the path into a clearing-

And then cried out as sharp teeth bit into his ankle, the pain spreading up his calf.

He glanced over his shoulder to see his left back leg clamped between the silvery teeth of a trap craftily embedded in the snow, pale purplish liquid coated on the metal.

Wolf's bane, he realized with a start. It wasn't just enough that he was trapped. He was also being weakened.

"I think I heard something!" His heart chilled at the sound of a man, his heartbeat pounding excitedly a few feet away from him. With two more joining in, just as excited.

"It must be the wolf!"

"We're gonna be rich!"

Not if I can help it, he thought. He tried to slip past the trap, but one foot forward and his right front leg was caught in another trap. Clenching his teeth to swallow back his screams, he tried to move away, tugging and wiggling his way out, despite the pain clanking through his body like a heavy bell. But it was like the more he struggled, the more weak he became; the metal digging into his body, tearing through his skin. The poison spread, rushing through his legs, swelling up inside him.

No…He sank down to the ground, his legs stiffened to useless lead, his limbs twisting and quivering No!

This couldn't be the end. Not like this.

He attempted to free himself, but his body refused to cooperate. He clamped his mouth to keep in his howls rattling through his teeth.

In the distance, he heard quick, light steps-almost faint. And a steady, calm heartbeat coming closer and closer. He forced himself to lift his head up, ignoring the aching protest of his body, and opened his eyes.

Through the mist of pain clouding his senses, he made out a small figure standing in front of him. A girl from what he could make of her scent. Her petite frame wrapped in a rich shade of red, a mass of wild dark curls that mostly covered her face, the dark shade of her eyes, and the thick ax she held in her hands.

He bared his teeth at her. If he was going to die, he was taking her with hm. And he'd make sure it'd hurt.

The ax was raised high and brought it down. He braced himself for the blow intended to finish him, to tear through his skin, and spilt his head. He braced himself for the cold, brutal end.

What he heard instead was a hard, swift clang.

Near but not direct. Again and again, the clang ringing like church bells.

Bewildered, he opened his eyes to realize the blows were meant for the metal claws.

Again and again the girl, her scent of roses and cinnamon overwhelmingly toxic, hacked away at the claws until it finally cracked opened, releasing his ankle.

What the-Before he could even digest the thought, she turned her attention over to the other one, throwing her back into each hit.

Swing after swing, blow after blow, the metal cracked, releasing his other foot.

His ankles were a mass of thick bruises and caked blood, the wounds burning-hot, streaks of red oozing from them. He could still feel the venom biting his insides.

"Get out of here."

He dragged his gaze away from his bruised feet over to the girl. She was a bit older than he thought before. Around eleven, though her small frame gave her the appearance of someone much younger. Golden olive skin peeked from the red cloak. What really captured his attention, though, were her eyes.

At first glance, they almost appeared dark. Now he could see there were a bright shade of green. If there was anything hard about them, it would be the heavy, stoned glare they held. So many harsh words, so many hardships, so many questions wrapped in an intense glare from such a young girl.

It was the same look he saw everytime he looked at the mirror.

"Go!" she demanded.

He stole one last glance at her and sped off the same way he came. Just in time as those exited, rapidly-beating heartbeats charged in.

"You little freak!" a man hissed, the hatred and disgust clear in his voice. "What have you done with the wolf?"

"You honestly think a little girl collecting firewood is strong enough to take down a grown wolf?" The girl. She was speaking, Such heavy, flat sarcasm hidden behind a pleasant, almost-light voice. "Why, dear uncle, you're too kind."

A crack whipped through the air, followed by the heavy thump that could only belong to a collapsed body.

A memory struck him from behind. His mother cowering away from Father's hard fists, him trying to be her shield and getting knocked down by the heavy blow.

He looked over to see the girl on the ground, huddled into a ball, with the red cloak wrapped around her like a barrier. Towering over her was a greasy, heavyset man with a thick mustache and murder in his eyes as he glared down at her. Behind him were his companions, similar to his large frame and greasy appearance, watching as if it were a show.

The man took the ax and held it up high. "This will teach to watch your mouth!"

The girl curved her body tight, hands clenching onto her shoulder, preparing for the blow. He saw droplets dripping from her cheek, splashing onto the ground.

Drip. Protect.

Draco's claws dug into the ground, his nails lengthening to talons.

Drip. Protect.

His fangs pierced through his gums.

Drip. Protect.

He could feel every muscle, every hair on his body shake with anger that built and built with each ragged breath that hissed through his clenched teeth.

He opened his mouth to let out a growl, a growl that made skin wither to corpse white, a growl that made the heart leap and bounce with fear, a growl that alerted every creature within hearing distance he was hungry for blood.

The ax fell from the man's head, narrowly missing the girl's head by a few inches. Inches too close that earned him another growl that lashed against his skin like a whip.

"Ver-Vernon…" One of his simpletons uttered, knees buckling.

"It's-it's probably nothing. Just the wind." The man's answer would have been more convincing if fear didn't rattle his voice.

He growled again, much louder, making sure his shadow was seen. That his presence was known-and the oaf's skin and his claws would be soon become greatly acquainted if harm came to the girl.

"That...it...You-you-" The man's eyes glanced down at the girl, remembering she was still there. "You better get that wood and have a fire starting, girl, when I get back. Or no meals for a week!"

With as much dignity as he could, which was less than his own pinkie, the man turned on his heel and retreated with his friends who barely spared the girl a glance.

She slowly rose from the ground, one hand pressed against her swollen cheek, fingers painted with blood, and the other hand holding onto her cloak. She looked into the woods, almost as if she could see him lingering in the shadows, standing tall and steady, her eyes calm.

He slowly stepped out into the light, staring back at her. Her heartbeat hadn't changed in the slightest, still calm and steady through freeing him, dealing with the oaf and his pack, and now, facing down with a wolf who could easily tear her apart.

She blinked once, picked the ax, and walked away, disappearing into the trees.

Later on that night, he sat by the fire, using the light to examine the wounds. The marks swelled, the pain radiating from his scarred wrist up to his forearm, aching just as badly as his ankle. He crushed healing herbs into water and used a cloth to wipe away the blood, clenching his teeth each time his raw skin was touched.

His mind drifted back to the girl dressed in red. She used the ax to free him instead of kill. She was knocked down by the oaf ox and prepared herself for another hit. She watched him with those steady, hard green eyes.

I'm not scared of you, those eyes seemed to say.

Little Red, he mused.