The Wolf Who Cried Love
Disclaimer: JK Rowling, if you weren't sure, owns everything to do with Harry Potter. I am but a humble writer trying to expand on my skills and bore people with my over-active imagination :)
A/N: I should begin by stating that this fic should've been a one-shot, which it sort of is in a way. However, due to the word count I'm estimating, I'm dividing it into four small chapters/ parts. The following two will be uploaded at some point tomorrow...
This was written for the Diagon Alley II forum's Fairytale Challenge. This time, I chose the classic fairytale prompt: The Boy Who Cried Wolf where I chose to focus on the alternative task to write about Fenrir Greyback.
Optional prompts:
Song: 'Overnight Sensation' by Born.
Words: Midnight, divine, seraphic, amethyst.
Dialogue: "You are an itch that needs to be scratched."
It was also written for the Challenge Your Versatility challenge.
I do hope you enjoy it!
Part One: Divine Intervention
Fenrir's ears twitched back and forth, picking up the sound of light footsteps walking across the pavement. Tuning his ears in, he listened more carefully; yes, there were two of them, one of the owners skipping ahead of the other by two beats. Ten meters away… now nine… ah yes, there were their voices. Good, he wouldn't have to wait long then.
Moving deeper into the shadow of the swing set, he listened as the voices carried out across the night air.
"Hurry up, Christine, I want to get home!" a female voice shouted.
"Lighten up Petra, it's not even midnight yet. I want to enjoy the night as much as I can—you know my mother will ground me as soon as I get home," another, lighter voice replied.
Fenrir sniffed the air, catching the delightful scent of perfume and soap, and confirming his suspicions. Perfect, two women. His nostrils flaring, he took in the women's scents again, testing the individual tones that wafted to him. A touch of rose oil from one and… yes, there it was, that same, disgustingly delicious scent of Chanel Eau de Toilette many of his encounters seemed to douse themselves in. So these were young ladies—even better.
Creeping forward on bent knees, his yellow eyes glinted as the ladies finally came into view. The first girl, Petra, was marching forward, a fur coat wrapped around the skimpy lilac dress she wore. Around her throat, an ostentatiously large amethyst hung, swinging to and fro as she hurried along. Briefly glancing at her friend, he noticed that she, too, wore fine jewellery, a quick glint as they passed a street light indicating diamonds dripping down her throat. His attention turned back to Petra, his lips twisting into a smile. He would have fun with her. Perhaps he would make the girl believe that her life would be spared for a ransom? That he would allow her to live if mommy and daddy paid a small fee. Then, when the girl stared up at him, eyes wide with hope, he would pat her head, and whisper that he would be as gentle as possible with his teeth. Fenrir's heart beat faster at the prospect, his smile spanning further across his face. Yes, now that would be fun.
Petra turned her head back to the other girl, fear in her eyes as though she had been able to hear his thoughts. "Please, Christine… Have you not watched the news lately? People in this shire have been disappearing lately."
"Don't tell me your scared."
"Traces of blood have been found around town," Petra emphasised, stopping under a lamp to completely face the other girl.
Fenrir noted with approval that the girl wasn't exactly model thin. Her dark brown hair was a little too long, and would probably get in the way, yet her voluptuous chest and wide thighs more than made up for it. She'd do him for the night.
The other girl, Christine, took her time in walking to her friend. With a laugh, she teased, "Please tell me that you don't still believe in the Werewolf of the forest? Honestly, Petra, you might have made me believe once, but now it's getting too much. Let it go already, you can't scare me with your stories anymore."
"That was in the sixth grade," Petra huffed. Folding her arms around her chest, she looked around.
Fenrir smirked, ducking back into the shadows. So they had heard about him? About time the stupid Muggles showed him some respect. In fact, he would begin with this Christine; he would make Petra's day and show the girls that yes, the big, bad wolf did exist.
Running his tongue over his sharp, pointed teeth and flexing his nails, he took a step forward. At the same time, however, Christine finally reached her friend, stepping forward under the lamplight.
Freezing, Fenrir stared at the girl. His heart quickened, and a strange sensation swirled around his stomach. The girl was beautiful. Christine wasn't simply pretty, like the runaway sixteen year olds he had cornered; she was an angel, an immaculate creation sent down by God that Fenrir had never seen before. Under the light, her blond locks shone like a golden halo, her smooth skin showing no imperfections. Her seraphic features didn't stop there, however; as she moved forward and enveloped her sulking friend in a hug, she smiled, and his heart took off. She was a divine gift sent down from the heavens.
Truth be told, she scared him.
Shaking his head roughly, Fenrir pushed back the thought. So what? The girl was beautiful, and that would only make her all the more pleasurable to his lips. God, or whoever the Muggles believed in these days, could test him all he wanted. He would have Christine—and Petra, for that matter—and take every delight in it.
Tensing his muscles, he strode forward again.
Petra shook Christine off, tears in her eyes. "I'm telling you, something is out there."
"Ok, ok, I believe you. Come on, let's go then," Christine said, holding her hands up as she placated her friend. Then, grabbing the brunette's arm, she twirled them in a circle, laughing.
Her giggles hit Fenrir like a bullet, preventing him yet again from pouncing. Dammit, what was with him? What power could one little girl hold over him? He glared at her, watching as she linked arms with Petra and gracefully, her tanned limbs long and shapely, continued walking down the street. Soon, they disappeared around the corner, the darkness their safety.
Growling, Fenrir kicked at a small pebble near his foot. So his feet could move, then? What a shame they allowed his meal to walk away! He sent another pebble flying across the park, teeth bared. Great, just great. The perfect opportunity, and he had blown it.
After several more stones were kicked, Fenrir raked his hand threw his thick, brown hair. Drawing in a deep breath, followed by another, he struggled to regain control. The moon was not yet at its peak, and if he wasn't careful, transforming would be rather painful. Even more than it would be with an empty stomach.
Luckily, his ears picked up another group of late-night wanderers. Tuning in, he realised with disappointment that their steps were sluggish and voices deep; an easy picking, yet probably not as tasty. Still, they would have to do. Preparing his muscles, he took off in their direction, cursing the blonde woman he had let go with every step.