Title: Ravenous
Prompt: Red Cap (Write about someone getting lost in their blood lust for the war.)
Character: Fenrir Greyback
Rating: T – gore, dark themes. (Plus, sort of a crack!fic…with blood. But not really, so…)
Challenge: Grounds: Care of Magical Creatures (Hogwarts School Forum)
Challenger: The Dreaming Hare
Word Count: 536
Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns everything you recognize.
Notes: Yeah, I know. Not original. Sorry 'bout that.
The smell.
That's the first thing that people noticed about him.
It seemed to blanket him, consume him.
He smelt of iron.
Metallic.
He smelt of blood.
He loved it, the taste, the smell...
And, of course, the things it brought along with it.
War, conflict…all in the wake of bloodshed.
He welcomed war.
He would welcome any war, as long as there was violence.
He reveled in the thrill of battle, the feeling of the tension that thrummed through the air.
The wolf in him had made him this way.
Unlike the others, he embraced the wolf.
They pushed it away, acted like it wasn't part of them.
Tried to act normal.
Like they actually could ever fit in.
They were cowards.
Did they not see what they could do?
What it could do?
It was a gift, not a curse.
The wolf and the man.
Together, they could do so much.
They could hold power over so many others.
But they made a choice not to.
They made the choice to stay the way they were, cringing at the mention of their very being.
It was just a part of them, not as with him.
To him, the wolf was him.
There was no him without the wolf.
People found it revolting, disgusting.
The things he did.
They said there was something wrong with him.
They were the ones that were wrong.
He was just a man.
A wolf, but a man all the same.
He just knew what he wanted, and he went for it.
He would help him.
He was powerful, with many wizards at his disposal, and was so inclined to think that he was just a wolf; a mongrel at his disposal.
So…naïve.
So clueless.
He would turn the tables, one day.
One day, he wouldn't have to beckon to his every call.
One day he would exterminate the Wizarding World.
They were bound to be wiped out one day, and he planned to do it.
They were too weak to survive.
Too cowardly.
Too…human.
Yes, that was exactly what was wrong with them.
They were human, they were taught to have mercy.
Wolves didn't have mercy.
They had no need for mercy.
What use could it be, in the wild?
During the cold, bare winter months, when there was no food to be caught.
What, then, could be found of mercy in a wolf's heart?
Nothing.
One man, one man in his entire life had judged him, and his words still rang true in his brain.
Lodged, as if caught in the darkest recesses of his mind.
He had been describing werewolves.
More importantly, he had been describing him.
Soulless, evil, deserving of nothing but death.
The words of a fool, who had then discovered the true power of the wolf when his own son, a five year old boy, became 'victim' to the greatest opportunity ever given to a wizard.
He never felt sorry for them.
His victims.
Any of them.
To him, they were not victims.
They were lucky.
Just as he had been.
He had been blessed with a gift that could keep on giving until he died.
Fenrir was a generous person.
He could share.
