Author's Note: I have challenged myself to diversify my writing this year and this is definitely something different for me… both second person and the Pre-Hogwarts era.
Fenrir
For most people, pretending to be dead would be difficult. But you were not like most people. You weren't even like most other werewolves. The ones you had met viewed your condition as a curse, but you disagreed.
You lived for the thrill of the hunt. There was a ritual to it all, marked by the phases of the moon. When the moon reached a waning crescent, you must know where you were going the next month. This was important, because staying in one place too long drew too much attention. No, it was best that you stay on the move. Too many others had been caught and killed for such simple mistakes or, at best, been shoved into some sort of program for months or years on end. You never heard from some of them once they disappeared and you vowed you would not join their ranks.
In the week that followed, leading up to the darkness of the new moon, you would find a suitable place to transform. For most werewolves, this would be some sort of locked room or a location deep in the forest, nearly impossible to get to without apparation. You had experienced both of those, but had no desire to live through them ever again. The first decade of your transformation, back when you were Fenton Grey, your transformations had been done in chains. The full moons were spent biting and scratching and clawing at yourself, trying to get free. All it had done was feed the fire of your resentment. Being in the woods was better, with game to hunt, and you had done it for years. You had even been somewhat content with it.
That had all changed the first time you stumbled across humans. Deep in a Welsh forest, you had stumbled upon a pair of Muggles camping deep in the woods. The grey fur on your hackles had stood on end as you had caught a whiff of their scent.
That was the night you became Greyback.
For a time you tried to fix things. You tried to go deeper and deeper into the woods, further and further away from humanity. Hunting and destroying game was good, but nothing compared to the full moon you had accidentally stumbled upon the Muggle campers. You found yourself wishing for another night like that… the fight, the fleeing, the panic on their faces. Soon, you had given in to your urges and returned to civilization to complete your changes.
At first, you had been hasty in your decision making. Reckless. Soon, people realized that there was a werewolf in the community. You began to worry that they suspected young Fenton Grey was the one guilty and that they suspected your alter-ego, Greyback. You had to disappear, but were still almost caught a few times. Once, when you were attacking the Lupin boy, you barely got away.
After that, you were more careful. You didn't chose people you knew. You moved around. You even started connecting with others in the werewolf underground. Taking their lead, you came up with a pseudonym. It was on the outskirts of a Muggle town, where the air was dirty from nearby factories, that you first gave your new name: Fenrir Greyback.
Soon, that was all you were known as. You even began to think of yourself that way. As you adapted to the lifestyle and grew more comfortable in yourself, you even began to build a reputation for yourself as someone who enjoyed hunting humans. More specifically, as someone who enjoyed hunting young humans and the torment it caused their families and communities.
That became the ritual as the moon began waxing, filling night by night. You would find the child you wanted to attack. Fear of your name began to spread amongst witches and wizards who had never been bitten. It was that fear that got His attention.
You were in the Dark Lord's employ for nearly seven years, from a cold winter's day in early 1982 to the night he attacked the Potter boy on Halloween of 1981. You relished in not having to hide, in the protection that came with being a part of the Dark Lord's service. He looked at you like you were scum, judging you for your lycanthropy and refusing to give you the Dark Mark, but it was a fair exchange for the freedom it gave you.
But, when he disappeared, destroyed by the Potter boy, everything changed.
Not only did your protection vanish in the blink of an eye, but you were suddenly more at risk than ever. You watched as Death Eaters were rounded up in droves. Some got off, but more were sentenced to time in Azkaban without a trial. You knew you would be part of the latter group if you were caught, so things had to change.
There was only one thing to do: you had to become Fenton Grey again.
It was harder than you expected. You had been Greyback for so long, you forgot how hard it was to blend in and to hide your disappearances every month. But you did it. For three long, painful years you resorted to locking yourself up like some kind of animal on full moons. You tried to stay out of the magical community to stay hidden, instead dealing with filthy Muggles every day. You didn't want to, but you did it to avoid Azkaban.
In the spring of 1985, things were more stable than they had been in years, or perhaps ever. You had managed to hold down a job for more than six months, taking advantage of the inconsistent hours and a manager that was easily bribed to get the time off you needed. You resisted the urge to complete your monthly ritual, instead forcing yourself to work to near exhaustion so the transformation would be easier.
You were ready to sleep when you chained yourself up that April, fastening the chains to your ankles and wrists like you had done so many times before. You were as miserable as you had been every full moon of the last few years, dreading what was coming.
It was as painful as ever, but something was different. Somehow, you were able to free one of your hands. Maybe you hadn't fastened it properly in your tiredness. Whatever it was, it gave you a new fervour. Somehow – to this day you didn't know how you did it – you managed to free yourself from your restraints. After that, there was only a wooden door between you and freedom.
Everything came rushing back. Your nose, so much stronger this way than in your usual form, caught a scent that was unmistakable: children. Instinctively, you ran between the trees downwind towards it. When the lights of the house came into view, it was all over.
From there, breaking into the house was easy. Once inside everything was as good as you remembered it, like you had been dreaming for months. The fear. The panic. The shouting. The attempts to flee. By the time it was done, your grey muzzle covered with the warm blood of your victims, your first three victims in so many years, you were rejuvenated.
That was the night that Fenton Grey died for good and Fenrir Greyback – your true self, the one you had been trying to resist – was born again.