Chapter 1 : F.G.
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Chapter image by bewitching. @ TDA
A/N: I don't own anything you recognize.
He regretted nothing.
Fenrir Greyback had done a great deal of horrible things in his life. It was his goal to convert as many people to werewolves as he could. It didn’t matter the effect on their lives, only the effect on his.
He had a particular penchant for attacking children – starting the lycanthropy process in the young ones, who could be easily molded to his wishes.
And then there were the times where he couldn’t even be bothered to stop after infecting the child. The crunch of bones under his powerful jaw, the metallic taste of blood, the symphonic sound of their last screams – it was addicting.
They called him a monster. He was, and he wouldn’t deny it. Since the day he was first bitten, he knew what he was: a brutal beast. And if he was already a disgusting and vicious creature, why not make the most of it?
Sometimes he looked at the werewolves who didn’t act on their more bestial side, and wondered what it would be like to be them. To openly struggle with the monster within, to fight against their instincts and live in normal society. That Remus Lupin character had done it.
But look where that had gotten him. Lupin was dead, and so was his pretty little wife. Fenrir had been watching as they were each individually struck by the blazing green light, and he couldn’t help but feel a little relieved that Lupin would no longer be around to convince other werewolves to repress their nature.
Of course, Fenrir himself wouldn’t be around to convince them otherwise either. Here he was, strapped down to a chair, awaiting the Dementor’s Kiss. Thanks to all of the wreckage he had caused over the course of his lifetime, this punishment seemed the only one worthy of his misdeeds. Or, at least, that’s what the Ministry proposed.
Fenrir knew that his acts were cruel, yes, but surely they could see that there was at least some greater intention within them? The Ministry didn’t see the struggle that werewolves went through. Nobody did.
He looked around the prison cell he was in. Solid concrete on all sides, painted black so that even the light that seeped in through the vent above couldn’t illuminate much of the room. The lack of visual interest forced Fenrir to focus on his own thoughts instead.
He thought back to his younger days. On a summer night when he was only twelve or thirteen, he had been wandering through a nearby forest, only to come in contact with a stray werewolf. He had been bitten, naturally, and his whole life took a rather nasty turn.
The headmaster at the time, an awful man by the name of Phineas Black, had absolutely forbidden him to return to the school afterwards. His own parents had kicked him out of the house, claiming that a werewolf son is no son at all.
He grew up in the forest, away from humans. But that got awfully lonely. He wanted companions: other werewolves that would keep him company. And thus begin his life mission of transforming as many people as he could.
At first, his attacks were only by chance. He would find a child that he planned to target, and wait for the full moon. But what was the fun in that? A random victim isn’t quite as enjoyable.
So he began to target people that had offended him. Lupin’s father, for example. Having your child infected with lycanthropy was surely punishment enough for the parent’s misdeeds.
Never mind that it would hurt the child as much as the parent. Fenrir didn’t care about other people, only himself.
An unidentifiable person stepped into the jail cell room. “Mister Greyback,” he addressed Fenrir, “The time has come.”
Fenrir replied only with a noncommittal grunt. He wasn’t afraid of a Dementor. He wasn’t afraid of anything.
He had joined the Dark Lord’s ranks not because he was afraid of the man, but rather because it was convenient. It allowed him to attack even more victims, as the Dark Lord had a vendetta against nearly everyone.
The Dark Lord never let Fenrir officially join his ranks. Werewolves weren’t of the Dark Lord’s ideal race, and therefore weren’t worthy to wear the Dark Mark. Fenrir was only wanted for his attacking skills.
Of all the things he could be remembered for, he was going to be remembered as an attack dog.
The room dropped a few degrees, which assumedly meant that the Dementor had entered. The chill was biting, but Fenrir still felt no fear.
After biting his victims, some returned to him and joined him, but many didn’t. He had expected that after being infected, a great deal of children would join him for the security of a pack, but that was not the case. Even the ones that did never truly got along with Fenrir, but were there because it was easy.
Maybe he could have fought his brutish side harder, but there was no joy in that. Only toil. Attacking people was easy, enjoyable even.
The black-robed creature slid into view, only a few feet in front of Fenrir now.
He saw those moments again: the attack, being kicked out of Hogwarts, exiled from his own home, being rejected by nearly every single progeny. Every moment that should have filled him with fear.
But he wasn't.
Fear wasn’t a part of Fenrir’s nature. Brutishness and ferocity, yes. Viciousness and sadism, yes. But fear, no.
He’d also been characterized as heartless, far too many times over the years. But Fenrir had a heart, and he was sure of that. He hated that he did.
That accursed heart of his was the reason he attacked people, with the vain hope that just one of them would return to him, not just in body but in mind too.
But they all hated him for what he did to them.
The Dementor reached up, with its long, spindly fingers, towards its hood.
Fenrir wasn’t bad; he wasn’t evil. He was selfish and lonely. He capitalized on other people’s pain to endure his own, but nobody saw that side of him.
To everyone else, he was that beastly, disgusting werewolf.
Finally, the Dementor lowered its hood.
Fenrir was paralyzed in his seat, in cold-blooded horror.
Fear was a foreign emotion to Fenrir, but in that moment, he knew it well.