Author's Note: This is a story based upon the roleplaying I participated in with my friend, Bonita. She played Fenrir, and I played an original character named Iris Vanderbilt (the Future Mrs. Parkinson). Their relationship never escaladed past friendship, though Fenrir fell madly in love with Iris. She married a Parkinson, and Fenrir never was quite able to tell her of his feelings. This fic is canonly compatible, and is not OOC for Fenrir: this is merely our interpretation of what finally pushed him into his reign of terror as a werewolf.
Another Author's Note: 'Snake Lily' is another word for an iris. I considered calling the fic 'Fleur-de-Luce' at first, which is the name the flower earns in a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, but I like Snake Lily because it is compatible with the Slytherin element of the story.
Disclaimer: I do not own Fenrir Greyback or Harry Potter, however Iris Vanderbilt is copyrighted to myself.
The first time he laid eyes on her, she was only a young girl. He was seventeen and teetering precariously on the ledge between being a pup and being a man. He was primarily interested in slaking the bloodlust that throbbed through his veins after each full moon. Nothing—nothing sated him. Blood of virgins, blood of children, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, men, women. He sampled each tender morsel of flesh, attempting to find the being that satisfied him.
It was October, and the weather was chilly, a whisper of snow shadowing the undersides of the clouds. Every morning, a thick frost blanketed the grounds, individualizing each blade of grass in a clear, icy sheath. As the sun kissed the sleepy lawns, thawing the ice, the castle would awaken. Breakfast would be served in the Great Hall. The students would just be awakening beneath their warm blankets to a toasty, radiator-heated dormitory room, and dress in the darkness.
The time was between lunch and the last class of the day, which really could have been any three hour period between twelve forty-five, and four o'clock. She would have insisted it was nearly two, but he would later say it had been several minutes past three. The time did not particularly matter, as time so often does, but it was just a minor detail in the schemes of such grander matters.
She lay on a pale blue wool blanket, absorbed in a slim, satin-bound novel. She was entirely alone except a small ladybug perched on the slope of her cheekbone. She brushed it away with an impatient hand. It landed, clearly disgruntled, onto the folds of the blanket. It crawled away into the jungle of grass, leaving her alone once again.
He paced a trail along the muddy banks of the lake, his head down. A bitter wind swept tendrils of mousy hair around his steel-coloured eyes. The wind would have cut him to the quick, to his very soul—if he had had a soul. Instead, there was merely the black hole inside his chest, the hole that called for more blood, more carnage after each full moon. Despite his lack of soul, seventeen-year-old Fenrir Greyback was the closest thing to perfection. His face was sharp, his nose handsome and aquiline, and his lips bow-shaped and plump with the memory of his boyhood. His clothes were shabby, his cloak was patched and worn. His appearance drew little if any attention to himself.
She licked the tip of her finger, drew it across the page, and turned it with a gentle grace. She paused momentarily to watch the strange boy as he passed her. Unlike the other company she kept, this boy fascinated her. She was used to well-groomed young men: boys with feminine faces, tidy, sleek hair, and immaculate black robes over pristine uniforms. Boys who were raised in mansions in London with family tapestries in their parlours. Boys with the finest pedigrees in all of England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales. Boys with centuries of pure, blue blood rushing through their veins.
He looked up in that instant and their eyes met. Instead of looking away in shame, she continued to gaze at him with keen interest. His breath hitched in his chest.
The girl was undeniably perfect to him. Tight, short ringlets of pale gold framed a face so innocent that it stirred an emotion within his breast that he had never felt before. Her eyes, dewy, pearl-blue orbs seemed to stare through him and across the glassy surface of the lake. Her lips formed rose curves that matched the form of her body beneath a loose gown of deep purple velvet. The swell of her maiden bosom beneath the violet fabric arrested his attention momentarily. A silver locket lay against her chest, no doubt bearing her family's crest.
"Iris!" a voice called, and its owner sprinted into the scene, breaking the enchanting web of silence and mystery. Fenrir jerked his head down and continued walking. Iris, the girl, turned to her new companion, a laugh tumbling from her lips.
"Lucius." Iris folded her arms languidly about his shoulders, resting the cushion of her cheek against his shoulder. The boy tickled the flesh of her earlobe with his index finger.
"You look lovely today," he murmured against her ear.
Iris flushed with pleasure.
"You do like it?" she inquired with a tremble of glee. To please Lucius, her best friend, had always been a priority in her young life.
"Of course, Kitty. You look marvelous." Lucius' eyes followed Fenrir's progress as the young man slouched around the curve of the lake and disappeared into the trees.
"Luce, who is that? The boy, I mean."
"Fenrir Greyback. He's a load of trouble if you ask me. He doesn't talk to anyone. He gets in trouble a lot with the professors for fighting." Lucius' upper lip curled slightly at Fenrir's shaggy, unkempt appearance. "I wouldn't go near him, if you're thinking about it," he added sternly.
"Oh no, of course not. I won't," she vowed solemnly, but her heart hesitated on the promise. The aura of mystery radiating from Fenrir intrigued her. She couldn't very well just forget the unusual boy with his compelling eyes.