Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping. Waiting. And though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir; open its jaws and howl. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow, empty rooms, shuddered and dank. Without passion, we'd be truly dead.
Excerpt from Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Scarlet Moon
The moon. She rises with the trivial, twinkling stars, beckoning darkness to devour the world and to triumph over the garish, unfeeling light. She reigns over us all, unleashing even the blackest of passions to claw to the surface in the noblest of men. When she rules, the animals inside us come alive, relishing the freedom. And for some of us, the animal always lurks. Never sleeping, never silent. Just waiting for the right time to strike, to let the ecstasy of mayhem and misery unfold.
I woke up with a sticky, sickly sweet, cold sweat; its beads made damp trails in my knotted grey hair and ran in an almost tantalizingly slow way down my rough, creased face. The droplets seeped into the pores of my neck and chest. I had dreamt a dream, or should I correct myself and say nightmare in this case, one in which I hadn't seen since I was very young.
The year was 1945, and winter had only just begun. The Dark wizard Grindewald was still at power after seven years of reigning over the wizarding world with terror; but every witch, wizard, and child knew this would soon be short lived for the 'great' Albus Dumbledore would vanquish him in due time, or so they hoped.
I had found myself standing in the middle of a kitchen that looked like it was only haphazardly clean for living sakes. Dishes upon dishes were stacked in the sink and little children's toys were scattered all about. The floors themselves were flecked with dust, as if a broom only halfheartedly made it more presentable. A tall, bony woman with wiry, greying onyx hair was making dinner for what looked like herself and her two children, who were playing with their magical toy soldiers under the rickety wooden table. It was like watching an old fashioned silent picture: the scene I witnessed was black and white and the people themselves were moving rather animatedly, more so than the children's soldiers. This place had looked disturbingly familiar to me, as if I had been there countless times before. But at that moment I wouldn't have known that in both body and essence, I have.
Then a little wizard skidded out from under the table and landed on his head. He looked like he made an attempt to do a headstand before he flipped again onto his stomach. One of the children was clapping enthusiastically with a happy grin plastered on their face, giving them the impression that they were was some sort of bizarre cherub. I looked down to see the wizard, who had silvery white long hair and wore a rather shocking pair of colored spangled robes, was running like a child would, but with complete grace, away from the tiny clutches of the children's dirty hands. I recognized it was a miniature Dumbledore.
A little boy, from the looks of him, had crawled out from underneath the table to capture the rogue figurine. The small Dumbledore didn't make it past my foot when the boy's small hand clenched around his midriff and where his finger should have touched my naked toe, it went straight through, like I was some kind of hologram. He couldn't see me, but I could see them. The look on the boy's face as he got hold of a squirming Dumbledore, bore a dark and glorious childish delight. Those murky brown eyes with golden flecks lit up with malice. My eyes. I was looking at my eight year-old self, my mother, and my younger sister, Nell. I was looking at my old home. My family.
I knew what would happen next, and before I could fight against it, blackness clouded my vision and entwined my limbs, pulling me into a more different, and a harsher scene. Unlike before, I could hear the screams of every man, woman, and child and all the other beautiful sounds of chaos, only the noises were going in and out of frequency, intensifying the sinister mood. It was still mostly black and white, but I could see the blood that was donned on clothes and was flowing in the cobblestone streets, like deep liquid rubies. War was ravaging the streets; people were running frantically to any safe haven they could find as various colored beams were attacking anything or anyone they touched.
Through the din I heard my mother's voice as clearly as if she was speaking in front of me. No sooner had I blinked, I was rushed forward to see my younger self and my family.
"Fenrir!" came her worried cry. "Take your sister, and run. Hide yourselves when you get the chance, when you're out of danger. I love you, my boy." Her taut lips pressed against my forehead and then she pulled Nell and myself me into a sudden embrace.
"What about you, mummy?" Nell asked, tears threatening to spill out of her doe eyes, her lower lip quivering.
"I'll help your father fight them off. We'll be together again, darling, I promise you that," she said ardently, although when she said "them" a chord of bitterness scalded her throat.
"How will you find us?" I had heard myself speak hollowly. Unlike my sister, I was not fooled by my mother's passion, and as much as I hoped my parents would prevail, I knew there was a chance, how big I did not know at the time, that they would not come back for us, and we would be torn apart. Maybe she knew this, but I would never know.
"A mother will always find her pups, one way or another," she said. As a beam of wand light hit a glass window near by, my mother's eyes lit up with anxiety. "Now, run! Be safe, my loves." Those were her last words before I ran away from the bedlam, my little sister in tow, trying to escape, like that little figurine.
That strange darkness had come upon me once again, and when I opened my eyes I had found myself in a dank little shack, the wood splintered, letting the night sky pour in. I saw myself and Nell huddled in a corner, trying to shelter each other from the bitter cold.
"Fenrir, when're mummy and daddy coming back?" I heard Nell ask timidly, into my ripped robes.
"I don't know," I barked, feeling miserable. When she drew a sharp intake of breath, at my harshness, I felt regret cloud my senses. "Sorry," I muttered.
My sister and I were very close, despite our age difference of four years. The war between light and dark was like a disease; it deteriorated relationships, only brought harm, but our bond was special. The bond of blood alone gave it such strength; war itself could not sicken it.
"It's all right," she whispered thoughtfully. "I'll love you anyways." I didn't reply for even then I wasn't one for endearments.
BANG.
A door, one that was barely hanging on its hinges, had blasted open, ushering in a gust of the cold, winter air. A few snowflakes blew in from the darkness and settled on the grimy floor. And like animals listening to their instincts, the two of us moved into the corner, trying to hide ourselves in the gloomy, empty shack, hoping whoever these intruders were, would not lay eyes on us.
Two wizards walked in, their boots thumping against the floor in a menacing manner, their wand tips lit. They were ones that showed allegiance to the horrid man whom sought power, and a pang of hatred swelled in my gut.
"Hainsley, shouldn't we report back to Dumbledore?" a silky smooth voice rang out; he sounded irked.
"Not quite yet, Monahan. We 'ave to check fo' civilians, you know 'is orders," the man named Hainsley answered. He must have looked into the little corner Nell and I was hiding in and saw our shadows on the nearly dilapidated walls, for one moment we were crouched on the ground, the next two meaty hands grabbed a hold of both of our robes, and dragged us out from our hiding spot, like meaningless toys.
"'Ello there," Hainsley spoke in a falsely sweet tone to both of us, showing crooked teeth. His breath smelled putrid. I growled savagely. "Friendly little boy, aren't you?"
"Put them down, Hainsley," Monahan ordered; he obviously wasn't comfortable with what they were doing. Hainsley did as he was told, and let Nell and I fall to the floor with a soft thud.
"And who is this little darlin'?" Hainsley posed, looking at Nell. He made to pinch her chubby cheek, but my hand swatted his away. The little light from a wand shone on my swarthy skin, exposing it to the beady eyes of the officers. Hainsley had seized my hand and held it with such a firm grip it was almost painful. He pulled up the sleeve of my tattered robe to reveal the werewolf bite I received from my father. I looked at my own scar, a languid burgundy compared to my young self's sparkling scarlet.
It was as if the dream had started fast-forwarding itself; the images became distorted and the silence screamed once more. One of the men drew their his wands…they had started having a row…a flash of poisonous green light…little Nell lay spread-eagled on the ground, dead…I attacked the men, attempting to maul them to pieces…it was all moving so fast.
As this was happening, another presence started to form beside me. Within moments, I saw it was Nell smiling angelically, like she never died, like nothing devastating had happened.
In my original dream, this was the part where she would tell me to kill them all, and for a second I was expecting her to say those words of encouragement. Instead, she put her snow white hand, so very different from my own, in the crook of my arm (the highest place she could reach) and said ever so softly: "Stop, my brother. Stop."
I hadn't a clue what it meant, but that was what dreams are: a load of inane, perplexing bullshit. I got myself out of bed- it was useless trying to sleep- and walked amongst my home, trying to find some suitable clothes to wear. Issues of the Daily Prophet littered the floors accompanied by rare, bloody steaks that were starting to get bacteria from being left out in the open for too long. There was nothing especially tidy about my humble abode for I had no guests whom would care to visit, and it would be rather foolish on my part to clean if I was only going to filthy it up again.
After I had found clothes and gotten dressed, I looked at the cobwebbed walls of my bedroom, something I did out of habit, and reminisced about the beauty of it all. Clippings from magazines adorned the walls, each and every one of them a part of my memorabilia. They documented my attacks and my murders, from the Lupins to the Montgomery family with each printed black word singing with fear. I guess I should have thanked that man, Hainsley, for destroying my humanity that night, and bringing to life my love for pain and human flesh, my everlasting passion for the full moon to rise. Throughout time I've become the fiercest werewolf, striking horror in parents' hearts, the makings of a legend. How I savored the thought. With one last look, I departed and made my way to the tavern of the Hog's Head.
The Hog's Head was as vacant and as dirty as ever. Only a few people occupied the rusting seats at the bar, and all, like me, concealed their faces in hoods; one even used bandages, giving them the look of a decaying mummy.
I sat in the farthest creaky, overstuffed bar stool, where the dust was piled high; all you could see was the palest grayish brown dust, the mahogany wood hardly perceptible. The bartender hobbled over to where I sat, and carelessly wiped down the wood in front of me.
"What would you like?" he asked rather vaguely.
I would like a fresh child, preferably one that is scared out of their mind. They always taste better when you can smell the panic, I thought acerbically in my mind. Instead, I said a firewhisky would do.
The door opened, but no footsteps reached my ears. Perhaps it was a ghost, but then again, ghosts liked to reside up in the castle of that god-forsaken school, Hogwarts. I wouldn't know for sure, I never was enrolled there due to my…gift.
The bartender came back with my drink and slammed it on the surface; , letting drops of orange, smoking liquid dissolve into the unclean wood.
I heard someone sit into the seat next to mine. Whomever it was smelled much like peppermint. I looked to see who it was, and for the briefest of moments, I thought my eyes had deceived me. It was the vampire Sanguini, an old comrade of mine you could say.
"Good evening, Greyback," Sanguini spoke fluently, with the slightest hint of an Italian accent.
Sanguini was a rather handsome man, with black as-night hair that cascaded down to his shoulders (though it was pulled into a ponytail at the moment) and starkly white skin. This was to be expected, ; he hadn't been able to get a tan as of late. His eyes were a deep sapphire blue, and they seemed to speak volumes of intelligence. Although he looked much younger than I, he was older than me; in actuality, Sanguini was five centuries my senior.
"Sanguini," I acknowledged him, taking a sip of my drink. As it went down, it burnt my throat. I didn't bother asking him how he knew it was I behind that black hood; he probably caught my scent. "What brings you here?"
"I'd thought I'd look up an old ally," Sanguini replied.
"Really? I'm surprised that fool of a man hasn't kept you on a tight leash. He follows you around enough, like he's your mate," I chuckled in my raspy bark of a laugh.
Sanguini had disregarded my slur. "Who, Mr. Worple? Yes, he certainly has gotten on my nerves. I'm debating of inviting him to dinner," Sanguini said, smiling darkly, revealing pearly white fangs that would normally send chills rattling down people's bones; they, however, did not phase me in the slightest bit.
"Need company?" I retorted; I was growing hungry for a good kill.
"Oh, Greyback, with your reputation I'm sure he has heard of you, and then the surprise would be ruined. What's the fun in that?" It was his turn to chortle.
"He'll taste better when he's cowering in fear, and pissing his pants in fright. The blood will flow faster too, giving that little zesty flavor. Even you must know that when you're in for the kill," I growled.
"Au contraire. While your human senses only allow you to smell strong odors, we vampires are different. Everything smells empowering and I don't know about you, but I for one do not enjoy the stench of a human's natural aromas while I'm eating what could be a perfectly delectable meal. I swear, Greyback, you kill and feed with such passion it's almost alarming."
I glared at him through narrow slits and I felt the urge to rip his immortal throat out, but instead of satisfying this newfound impulse, I downed the rest of my firewhisky.
"But it will be your downfall," Sanguini said gravely as he got off his seat. "Until we meet again, Greyback." Sanguini nodded his farewell before walking soundlessly out the door of the pub.
The morning skies gave an eerie greenish glow upon the cracked cobble stoned street; there wasn't a lot of brightness even though the wretched sun was rising, but my eyes were well adjusted to the darkness of the nightlife. I was walking back to my home in the Werewolf Ghetto, a place where the Ministry had shoved us into in hopes that they could lead a better life without locking doors and barring windows each full moon. It will be only a matter of time now before the Ministry will have their hands full with a bigger problem than the Dark Lord rising, and it isn't like they could count on old Dumbledore any longer; not since after Snape did away with him.
When I slammed the door shut, I noticed someone other than myself was there. I did not like it. No one dared enter my home without my knowledge, unless they didn't give a damn about their life, or they were too ballsy for their own good. I turned around to see what exactly broke into my home. My hand, not unlike a cat's when threatened, was ready to strike. But the moment soon became anticlimactic when I saw none other than Bellatrix Lestrange sitting at my table, polishing her wand.
"Now, now, Greyback, is that anyway to greet a lady?" She spoke in a mock tone of a mother reprimanding her child for a misdeed.
"Lady? I don't see any here," I jibed at the Dark Lord's protégée. It really was true: Bellatrix Lestrange was very far from being a lady of proper society, with her gruesome methods of torture. She waved her wand in a swishy movement carelessly at my face, and no sooner had her hand rested on her lap, two shallow cuts appeared on both my cheeks, as if they were cut by a sharp scalpel. I had to admit, they did sting something fierce.
I grimaced at her, as I wiped the blood off of my face. It was no secret that she and I didn't get on well. "Lestrange, what the hell are you doing here?" I asked bluntly, getting straight to the point.
"The Dark Lord has a task for you to complete," she said arrogantly, like he was a god himself, and it would have been the highest honour to do him a favour. When I began to interrupt, all she gave me was an icy, commanding stare. " It appears that the Order of the Phoenix has been catching on to what the Dark Lord has in store for the future. It will only be a matter of time before they discover His secret, and that must not happen. The Dark Lord has asked me," and at this I thought I heard a hint of praise in her voice, but it returned to its haughtily cold nature once more, "to inform you that as the full moon will be arriving before long, he would like to see blood, just enough to keep them occupied while the Dark Lord perfects his plan."
"Very interesting," I said, tempted by the thought of a delicious massacre. "Does he have anyone special in mind?" I asked, licking my lips.
She took her time answering this question, choosing her words carefully. Her wand was spinning in her bony hand, as if she was immersed in thought. And then she answered, "No, but He implied that it is essential to handicap them brutally." At this, she let out a mad giggle, her eyes ablaze with malevolence. "Perhaps you might want to treat yourself to a nice little family. A few of our spies reported one of the Weasley boys had has gotten married, and now he and his wife have a newborn that they spoil relentlessly. I know how much you love kiddies, Greyback," she whispered the last part.
"How quaint of you to enlighten me," I sardonically grinned, flashing my pointed teeth. "Anything else you'd like me to know?"
"If you excuse me, Greyback, I have better things to do than to converse with a scavenger like yourself," she said with resentment. "Oh, and lest I forget, if things don't go according to plan, Greyback, it will not be me who suffers the consequences," she added threateningly, followed by her manic laugh. And with a pop she was gone.
So He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named wished to see some blood, eh? That was something both he and I had in common then. The blood that flooded my veins quickened with excitement at the thought of the wondrous bloodshed that awaited me just days ahead. My savage talents could be utilized once more, and my mouth watered at imagining the taste of the soft skin. This was going to be an attack to remember; I would make sure of that.
It didn't take long to discover the Weasleys' whereabouts at Ottery St. Catchpole. When you are in league with people and creatures whose sole goal is to eliminate a pimply-faced boy, it is hard to find a man who doesn't at least have an idea where the boy's affiliations live.
Whilst hiding in a patch of thick wood, and the sun was setting after a tiring day, I had witnessed Arthur Weasley and that melodramatic brat Remus Lupin talking in a formal matter with one another considering the grim society we had lived in then, away from the rest of the rather large group that was enjoying a feast held by Weasley's wife. I crouched lower to hear better, the brambles and the bracken digging into my skin as I lay upon the cold earth.
"How is Bill doing?" Lupin asked thoughtfully.
"Great, with all things considered, Remus. He's getting on real well with his adjustment. With Fleur there to take care of him, Bill doesn't have any complaints, and Mallory just lights up his world. You should see him, Remus, when he's with Mallory, it's like Greyback never did injure him. That kid is the best thing that's happened in a while," he smiled. Even I could spot the affection the dirty Muggle-loving wizard held for the baby, and it sickened me. This had only reminded me of the deed I was to carry out in the name of the Lord.
As the full moon approaches, a werewolf can feel her sway. When each minute fades away, the pull becomes stronger, and as the time gets closer, the wolf in them begins to rouse. Some would say so the transformation, however uncomfortable it is, is a little easier. Others would say it was is all centered on emotions. But they would not know because all of it is is a theory to those who do not possess the endowment of being a werewolf. You either believe it or you don't, but I for one did and I welcomed it with open arms.
It was the night of the full moon, and after tedious days of planning my precious bloodbath, my plan was ready to be set into action. I felt like a little child at Christmastime lurking in the shadows of Ottery St. Catchpole, eager for what was to come, and thoroughly tempted to go through with it before succumbing to the moon's commands. Yet I did not disobey.
I waited in the darkness for the Weasley boy and his wife to leave their home (which was only a few miles from the Muggle lover's), as I knew they would for one of their special Order meetings. If one of the Death Eater troops were accompanying me, I knew the priority would be to follow those two, get information, and maybe torture those who were present to death. But I was alone in this operation and for once, their insipid little conferences would not be a worthless amount of time after all.
From within the walls of their cottage, I heard two indistinct voices talking to each other in hushed tones. It was hard to hear but after pressing myself against the cottage wall, I heard much better, and I caught a glimpse through the window of what was going on. It was the Weasley, the one I had the pleasure of scarring at the stairwell of leading up to the Astronomy Tower, and his sister Ginevra. They were having a row.
"I don't see why--."
"Ginny, how many times do we have to tell you? You are too young."
"Ron's already been to a meeting, and he's only a year older than I! Oh, let's not forget that he's off with Harry doing Merlin-knows-what, and I can tell you it probably isn't playing rounds of Quidditch either! I've got as much as a right as anybody to be there, so don't you dare say I'm too young, mum."
"That's different, he's close to Harry…he was going to find out everything--."
"And I'm not close to Harry?"
"Ginny, please. Even if I do let you tag along with Fleur and I, do you really think mum'll let you stick around? No, not to mention she'll probably take it out on me by with a haircut. All we're asking you to do is to look after the baby while we're gone; you like Mallory. Anyways, Fleur will back before the moon rises. I have to fill in for Lupin while…. he's away."
"Fine," she said, irritated. Under her breath she added what sounded like "but as soon as she gets back, I'm gone." I must have moved my foot at some point or another as a twig had snapped under my booted feet. The Weasley girl, who had been nearest to the window, had taken notice, but she must have assumed it was the warm and toasty fire in the room crackling, and she moved away from the glass and curled up on the cushioned chair by the crib.
His wife had walked into the room, and after kissing the baby, and chatting mildly with the girl, she and her husband Disapparated, leaving the girl and the child all to myself, and at long last my plan was to unfold.
I crawled away from the window and as silent as a ghost, I made my way to where the small house met the edge of the wood, those same woods that have treated me with kindness and cloaked me from the view of other people. When I did a little outer reconnaissance while I waited, I observed that a lone oak tree, which its abnormally thick, elongated branches spread in many directions, some of which stretched to an upper floor window. This was to be my way into the cottage as I didn't possess a wand, stolen or not, and the only one around was sitting beside the girl.
I climbed the tree with little difficulty. I lost my footing on occasion, but I regained it all the same. Soon enough, I had found myself level with the small window. It was open, which only made my plan easier to accomplish, and not arouse suspicion so early in the game.
It took a little while to cross the bough (which was barely wide enough to support my feet) and the wind was just starting to pick up, making the tree that supported me begin to sway faintly. Well, there was bound to be something working against me, I thought bitterly. I made it to the edge of the window, after what felt like ages, and walked how like a primitive man would on all four limbs in order to prevent myself from falling to the hard ground. The room I was in appeared to be an attic or storage room for there were an assortment of objects, from armoires to table lamps, scattered through out the room; either gathering dust or were blanketed by white linens. I slipped into the room, along with my stealth; I toppled over with a thud followed by a curse that sounded from my mouth.
My muscles moaned with agony as I scrambled to hide myself amongst the sinister, towering shadows of the furniture for I heard a noise downstairs, a noise that meant someone was going to inspect the disturbance. Normally, I would never have done such a cowardly act, but showing myself then would have still been premature, and the element of surprise would be ruined, and then; the plan would have been shot down to the flames of Hell.
I could hear the light footfalls of the girl coming up the staircase as each second passed away. Then the doorknob jangled, and the door gave an eerie groan as it opened into the room, revealing a small glow that came from a wand. The wind had grown stronger, causing the nude branch that helped me into the cottage to beat at the glass ferociously. The sheets were sharply blowing along with the howling breeze.
The Weasley walked into the center of the room, wand alit, and from the light I could see she had a bracing look of determination etched on her pretty face. She walked charily as she moved her wand around the room, to make sure it was only herself and the baby in the cottage. When the faint blue light neared me, I had to hunch uncomfortably down on the dirty floor, my stomach pressed against the wood so she would not see me.
As I breathed in the musty stench of the attic, a stroke of brilliance flashed across my mind. There would be a time when the girl would let her guard down, for how long Merlin only knew, but at some point that the wand in which she held firmly in her hand now would slacken at her side. A perfect moment for an ambush. It too would also give me the satisfaction of killing before the moon released me from this skin prison within the hour.
She shivered as the cold air filtered seeped into the attic, and she hugged herself with her wand still secure in her grasp. I saw as she walked, that same aura of protectiveness about her, to the window. The girl shut it tight, and everything stopped to a ghostly halt. I held in my bated breath, afraid to break the stillness of the atmosphere; it seemed fragile, yet it was thick with the flavor of suspense.
I snuck out of my hiding place, using my senses to guide me through the obstacles in the darkening light. From here, I could see the last of the fiery sun setting behind the serene hills, and the deep shade of the lavender grey sky was intensified. It was just light enough to see in what direction I was headed, but it too was enough to cloak you from visibility.
Silently I slithered on the floor, toward the girl, preparing myself for the attack. and I looked up at the girl's silhouette with an expression that would mirror how a snake would see a particularly juicy and plump mouse. I, the predator, she the prey. That was how it would begin, and that was how it would end.