A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for the QLFC and Hogwarts. I don't really know what to say about this one, as it's so unlike everything else I've written. But I love it. So.

Chaser 2: Write about someone finding out another person is not the same species as them.

Optional prompts:

(Dialogue) "And then I wondered… why do they need fixing? Everyone and everything is broken in some way anyway."

(Emotion) frustration

(Word) belittle

Hogwarts:

Gardening Task 2: Write about losing hope.

Word Count: 2722

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.

Enjoy!

Bravery, Fenrir had learned, was an utterly useless thing. They said that the dawn always came after the darkness, but they were wrong—the night always swallowed the day.

And then, the moon took over the sun.

Deceptively beautiful, it hung like a majestic orb in the sky, but Fenrir and his kind knew the truth. The moon was a cruel mistress, and a merciless slave driver. As long as she existed, there would always be something to battle the light.

Once upon a time, he had thought he could change that—that he could fight against her calling and fight for good, not help her forces overtake the rest of the world. She'd proven him wrong quickly enough.

A man may be powerful, but nothing could withstand the wolf.

Three years, he had suffered this curse. There was nothing that could link him back to the man he had once been. Inside him now was a hungry being, a parasite in his mind. It wanted more; its thirst for blood couldn't be satisfied. Fenrir has long since given up resisting it, as such actions had only led to woe.

"Fenrir," Lyall whispered brokenly. "Why—why didn't you tell me?"

Self-disgust flared through the newly-bitten werewolf. "What was I supposed to say?" he demanded. "Was I supposed to tell you that I'm a monster?"

Lyall's blue eyes blazed. "You're not."

"Then what am I?" he questioned.

Lyall crossed the room and took Fenrir's bleeding hands in his. "You are the man I love, just like you've always been. This—this doesn't change that."

"How could it not?" he shot back. "Every month, I'll turn into a raging beast that tries to bite innocents, I'll remain unemployed, and I won't be able to protect you from myself."

Lyall shook his head, his shaggy brown hair flopping in front of his face. "I have a stable job, Fenrir. I can support the both of us. And we'll—we'll do whatever it takes to protect people from your wolf. It's not you during the full moon."

Fenrir wasn't convinced. "I don't want… I don't want you to burden yourself with me."

Lyall looked at him in disbelief. "I love you. How could you be a burden?"

The wolf was always present, always pushing; becoming one with it was the only way to ease the pain. The longer he let it control him outside the full moon, the less he was bothered by what the wolf made him do.

He didn't feel the chill of winter, didn't notice the sun on his back in summer. The wandering wasn't something he minded, as there was always food on the road.

Would things have been different if Lyall had never discovered his lycanthropy? Would they still be together, or would the curse have found another way to drive them apart? It seemed like the only way Lyall could be with him was if he'd been infected too. It made him wish he'd bitten him. The thought always resulted in a wave of disgust washing over him.

Sometimes he thought the self-hatred was driving him mad faster than the wolf was.

Lyall had never shied away from the curse. He'd taken it in stride, and though some major adjustments had had to be made, his smile had never once faltered. But Fenrir's head had been filled with hoarse whispers, ones that were impossible to ignore. They had started off as innocent. Then they had become louder, until he couldn't tell what he wanted from what the wolf wanted. Lyall had been his safety net. Always present, always constant, always strong and ready to catch him. The wolf had immediately figured out exactly what Lyall could do for Fenrir, and like all predators, it worked to close off his escape.

Even the strongest rope weathered over time.

Lyall shook his head angrily. "What are you doing? You have to get up."

Fenrir didn't move from the bed. "No, I don't."

Lyall sighed, running a hand through his greying hair. Fenrir glared at the silver strands. He knew it was because of him that they were there. "Fenrir, I'm doing my best. I know the situation isn't ideal, but if you give up, then there's nothing I can do for you."

The werewolf stared at the ceiling. "Maybe I don't want to fight it anymore."

The admission was whispered, Fenrir's dark eyes clouded over with shame at his weakness. But the animal inside him was grinning. This is what it wanted. He knew it should have scared him, the knowledge that he was giving in to something more sinister than anything he'd ever encountered before, but he only felt a loathing—he was Fenrir Greyback. He didn't give in to anything.

His thoughts turned to Lyall. This—this human was trying to quell the power inside of him. Trying to oppress his spirit, like all others of his kind. He was more powerful. He was stronger. He was the predator, and the weak were his prey.

Lyall ran a hand over his tired face, his eyes heavy with grief. "You don't mean that, Fenrir. You don't want to hurt people, that's the thing inside you talking." He tried to smile at his partner. "And I know you're strong enough to do this."

Fenrir's lips turned up in a snarl. His eyes flashed dangerously, and a low growl emitted from his throat. "The hell are you talking about? I'm strong enough to hide my true potential? Strong enough to live in fear? I'm a damned werewolf, for Merlin's sake. They—they should be under my control, not controlling me, constantly belittling me! You should be on your knees before me, but instead—"

"I'm presenting myself as your equal?" Lyall interrupted coldly.

His icy tone chased away the worst of the wolf—for now. Fenrir closed his eyes, completely exhausted. "Lyall," he murmured. "I—it's getting stronger."

Lyall turned away. "Sometimes I wonder whether you really want to fight this."

Fenrir opened his eyes, hurt. "Why would you say that?" he demanded.

Lyall hugged himself. "We just keep falling down the same slope. There's no halt in our descent. I'm doing my best to slow us down, but you've just given in to gravity."

"Gravity is an unbeatable force."

Lyall's shoulders shook. "So, now what? You're just going to let that beast inside you consume you? Fenrir, I don't even recognize you sometimes! There's no warning—one minute you're the man I love, and the next you're this—this monster that is trying to feast on us all and have absolute control."

Fear. The wolf hated it, tried to destroy it, but it still flooded him at his lover's words. "Are you—are you going to leave? Lyall, I'm—" His voice broke. "Lyall, I'm trying."

Lyall shook his head slowly. Fenrir didn't know whether to be elated or ashamed as Lyall said, "I'm too in love with you to leave now."

Their love had splintered. Fenrir grew to crave those moments of bestial power—he didn't feel alive unless that thrill of power was coursing through him. Lyall had done his best to anchor the werewolf's humanity, to no avail. Fenrir had begun to let the wolf take over whenever he was feeling frustrated or annoyed, and Lyall couldn't pull him back from that.

But then it had gone too far. He soon found himself unable to wrestle control back from the wolf. He had grown frightened, and the more desperate he'd gotten, the tighter the wolf held on. Soon, he'd begun to lash out, and Lyall had grown to fear his outbursts. Fenrir couldn't always remember what happened during these moments, but he feared that the wolf was hurting his lover directly.

It became impossible to guess when he'd lose himself. He'd begged Lyall to go, but the other man had stubbornly insisted on staying put. Fenrir would always love him, but he'd had a feeling that Lyall's love for him would grow weaker with every shout. Still, he had constantly lost the battle for his mind.

"Fenrir. Stop it, now."

Eyes blazing, the werewolf whirled around to face his lover. "Don't you understand?" he growled. "I can't stay here with you anymore! I'll kill you, don't you get it? I'll kill you!"

"You won't," Lyall said firmly. "This is the wolf talking. We've taken precautions, and I'm working on finding a cure. There's some promising research—"

"Yes, the research," Fenrir muttered. "I thought it was a good idea, too. A cure, a way to fix the problem. It seemed noble. But then I began to understand what my kind were going through. And I wondered… why do they need fixing? Everyone and everything is broken in some way anyway."

Lyall stared at him in complete shock. "Why… Fenrir, the problem isn't you. The problem is that there's something in you that's hurting you. That's what they're trying to fix."

Slowly, Fenrir shook his head. "No, you don't understand. There is nothing wrong with me."

Lyall looked lost, and Fenrir hated that he was hurting the other man—but another part of him hated Lyall for insisting that something was wrong. "But, you just said you were afraid of—"

Something sinister took over the werewolf's mind. "I'm not afraid of anything!" he roared. Fenrir's green eyes glinted madly, and he reached for the vase on the table beside him. "You—you think you're better than me now—"

Lyall gaped at him, unaware of the danger he was in. "Of course I don't think that! Fenrir, I love—"

It hadn't been a conscious decision. One minute the vase had been in his hand, grabbed in a moment of anger, and the next it had collided with Lyall's head. The man was lying on the floor, motionless, and all Fenrir could do was look on in horror.

There was a monster in his head, and sometimes it took control. He hadn't put up enough of a fight, and now his lover—the man he had planned to propose to the night he was bitten—was unconscious on the ground. Panic seized him. After making sure Lyall was still breathing, Fenrir gathered him up in his arms and prepared to pull him into the bedroom.

He'll hate you when he wakes up, a voice in his head whispered. You've ruined the only thing you had left. Better to kill him now than let him come back to kill you—

Fenrir dropped Lyall in terror. The wolf was back— it was telling him to—

He had to get Lyall away from him.

Fenrir pulled Lyall out the door and Disapparated him to St. Mungo's. He left him outside the doors, where a Healer or passerby was sure to find him. Then he Apparated back to his home and locked himself in the basement.

He needed to learn how to control this. For months, he'd worried that he was destroying the love they shared by growing ever so slowly feral, but now that Lyall had been badly hurt, the threat of losing him seemed so much more real.

He prayed that Lyall would give him a second chance.

Months passed. Fenrir rarely ventured out of his house, and Lyall hadn't been by since the incident. Fenrir hated to think of what that might mean for the two of them. He loved the other man—truly, he did—but when the wolf invaded his subconsciousness, it blinded him of that fact and made him lash out cruelly.

Finally one day, Fenrir felt that he had enough control to seek out the other man.

He scored newspapers and Muggle phonebooks, wandered through every town he came across, searching for any sign of the man he'd left behind. Three years went by, to no avail. Then one day, he found an answer.

A tiny blurb in the Daily Prophet, announcing the wedding of Ministry worker Lyall Lupin and Muggle Hope Howell.

He collapsed on his knees and wept.

He didn't know where he was. All he could think about was what had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

He'd been called in to the Ministry to be questioned about the murders of two Muggle children—a crime he was guilty of. Still, he had played the part of a Muggle tramp, pretending to be amazed at the magic he saw around him, but really searching for a sign of his ex-lover. He wanted a reason. He wanted to hear Lyall tell him he no longer loved him. Only then would he believe it.

When he'd entered the atrium, there had been no flash of recognition in Lyall's eyes. The only emotions he had shown were anger and disgust. A piece of an article he had read in a magazine advertising St. Mungo's years before appeared in his mind's eye.

A Ministry worker who had temporarily suffered memory loss regained most, of not all, of their identity today.

Not all. Lyall hadn't recovered his memories of them. Right then, all he saw was a monster who had killed two innocent children. Even though the wolf had been dominant in that moment, Fenrir had felt a prickle of worry.

They hadn't taken Lyall's claims seriously. He'd lost his temper, and some very unflattering things had been said. Soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death flew around his brain like a terrible chant. As Greyback had been escorted from the room, he'd heard one man's careless shout to Lyall.

"Just go back to your son, Lupin."

Such a simple sentence, but one he hadn't been able to stop thinking about. Which had led to his actions the previous night.

The boy had looked so much like Lyall. Same hair, coloring, features, smile—the only difference had been the color of his eyes. Eyes that, with the help of a few potions that were meant for the sterile witch or wizard but would have helped in their circumstance as well, should have been his own.

They should have held him together. Fenrir should have been there for his first steps, heard his first words. That boy should have two fathers. They should have all been a family.

As Fenrir watched the boy clamber into bed from the window, desire burned through him. The wolf hadn't taken this from him, he suddenly realized. Lyall had. The wolf had made him stronger, and he'd let Lyall make him think that turning others wasn't a noble cause. It was that resistance that had made Lyall forget. Lyall Lupin was gone. He couldn't make him remember the times they'd shared together; the little boy in the bed, though, he could make strong. He could save the child—their child—from being crippled by the humanity he'd been born with—

Fenrir shook his head, but the thought refused to leave his mind completely. On one hand, the boy was rightfully his—he'd loved Lyall first, had loved him more than he'd ever loved anyone. Their differences had driven them apart, stolen from them the boy in the bed. Through this logic, the wolf laid claim on the sleeping child.

On the other hand, there was a tiny bit of Fenrir left inside, protesting that he had only himself to blame for this turn of events, and maybe he should walk away and save the boy the same misery in love.

But the moon's pull was strong tonight, and Fenrir had given too much of himself already to put up enough of a fight.

If he couldn't have Lyall, then he would have the son they were supposed to share. He'd bitten the boy. Maybe he could still have him. Maybe Lyall would be disgusted when he found out, just like he'd grown disgusted of Fenrir. Maybe this boy would be his son, and Fenrir could shelter him from the belittlement he'd be sure to receive from the humans. He could raise a wolf— strong, fearless, and powerful.

But Lyall had kept him.

And now—now he was left alone in the world, with just his shattered mind for company, the sliver of his identity that hadn't been consumed by the wolf. He'd lost a lover to this curse; he'd lost a potential son. All it had left to take was what remained of his humanity.

He gave it up willingly. He had nothing left to fight for, anyway. There really was no resisting the beast within.

The moon swallowed the sun.

Bravery was a useless thing, indeed.