Disclaimer: Not mine

Pairings: Sterek, John/Harry, Scott/Allison, Lydia/Jackson, Hermione/Ron

Warnings: EWE, non-descriptive mpreg, slash, homophobes

A/N: as if I don't have enough stories going on right now…. This story had to pop into my head. :3 so yeah…. I haven't really watched Teen Wolf, as I have barely enough internet to do so and I don't get the channel… so something's may be different slightly…. I do try my best though so please forgive me on that fact. (I'm slowly making my way throw season 1, only on the third episode…. -.-')

A/N2: Harry was born in 1974, so push all the events in Harry Potter back 6 years. Stiles was born in 1996, so he's like 16-17 in the story. Sheriff John Stilinski was born in 1969 and is 43-44 (Yeah Stiles has young parents). Harry will be mostly referred as a woman named Harley Stilinski nee Evans in this… makes more since once you begin reading -.-

Stiles never talked about his mother. He didn't talk about her with Scott, and Scott knew the woman once. It was painful for him to drag up the memories of her and share them with anyone; well there was his father that he shared the memories with. They would spend a week at home, the week that his mother had died, and talk about her. It was mostly a very painful time for Stiles, bringing up those memories, and having to talk about them, when it was clear that Stiles could barely remember the woman. And even during the time, the two Stilinski men would barely speak.

Sometimes Stiles would catch his dad staring off into space, an almost peaceful look on his face, and knew the man was thinking about her. Sometimes his father would drink, and he would mumble to himself, and Stiles knew the man was blaming him – Stiles – for the lost woman's death.

And sometimes, late at night when his father would come home around midnight, Stiles would pretend that his mother would be greeting the man, her soft voice carrying up the stairs. Stiles would lay in bed and strain to hear everything his father did, and when the sheriff finally made it to the kitchen, Stiles would pretend that his mother was the one that made the meal, and the sound of silver ware scraping on dishware would become two. And when his dad finally made it up the stairs and stopped to poke his head in Stiles' room, Stiles could faintly hear his mother whisper-yelling at the man not to wake Stiles up, before the man finally went to his room.

It had become habit to do this after his mother had died, and Stiles didn't have time to do it with all the werewolf craziness that fallowed his friend. It was actually nice to do. And he hoped his friend could keep himself alive for the next week, it was the week that he took off from the real world to mourn his mother – off handily he wonder if Derek ever did this – and tonight was the last night his father was working and his deputy would be taking over the rest of the week.

Stiles stared at the ceiling making sure he got everything ready for this year; he'd gotten enough mountain ashes to surround their whole house so that no werewolf would be able to disturb them, and had enough food to last the week, though they barely ate during this time.

With a sigh, Stiles rolled over to his side, and buried himself deeper into his warm blankets. In the background he could hear his father's snores as the man fell into an uneasy sleep.

He knew Mrs. McCall would be coming by to check on them, and he could already feel the distain about this bubbling in his stomach. It's not as if he had anything against the woman, it was that it seemed as if she was trying to take the place of his mother, and that didn't seem right to Stiles, not when he saw how much in love his father was with his mother. He knew this wasn't true or at least hoped it wasn't true.

When he is finally able to close his eyes and sleep, his dreams are dominated by the spilling of blood, and a scream that sounds like it came from his mother. He tosses and turns trying to stop whatever is happening, he screams for his mother, but when she turns her green – green – eyes onto him, she spits up blood reaching out for him. Red eyes are gleaming from over her shoulders looking directly at him.

He awakes with a gasp. Eyes wide, trying to get away from whatever was there in his dream. He rubs his eyes, but as much as he tries he can't seem to be able to remember the dream, except for the smell of death.

"Are you okay?" Stiles did not in fact squeal at the sound of his father's voice.

Stiles turned and saw his father leaning in his doorway, an odd look across his face, and decked out all in his pajamas.

"Uh… what? …" Stiles said his voice hoarse from screaming.

John enters the room, and sits on the edge of Stiles' bed. He reaches out and gently places it on Stiles' arm. "You were screaming pretty loudly, woke me up actually."

Stiles turns his face away, "S-sorry about that." He mumbles.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Stiles shook his head, he didn't even know what had cause his nightmare, and "It's alright, your mother use to be the same way." John says as an afterthought. "She didn't know how to talk about it, and didn't want to burden anyone."

Stiles looked wide eyed at his father that was the first time he had heard anything like that. He could tell from his father's tone that the man really wanted to get that off his chest. Stiles shifted and glanced away from his father. "W-what time is it?" He asked instead. He wondered what had made his mother so scared that she would have nightmares from it.

"Around seven." John stood up, and ruffled Stiles' hair, "Go back to sleep. Melissa will be here soon."

Stiles nodded and did as his father asked.

He was running, he didn't know from what, but his mother had told him to run. Over his harsh breath he could hear the sound of footsteps getting closer, and closer. It wasn't his mother, no matter how much he wished it to be, it wasn't his mother's voice taunting him, talking about how his intestines would look like on the ground of the forest. Tears ran down his face and he wished his mother was there to help him. He screamed as he was tackled from behind, and his mother's scream sounding behind him. He cried into the soil beneath him, gasping for air, a hand was raised, claws extended ready to rip him apart. As it came down, pain erupted on his back, and his mother screamed again.

Stiles sat up in bed, gasping for air, again. A glance at the clock beside him told him it was only noon, and faintly he could hear Mrs. McCall and his father talking downstairs.