Author's Note: Harry Potter, of course, belongs to JK Rowling. So do Rita Skeeter and Fenrir Greyback. Written for K. Lynn Perks' Buffy the Vampire Slayer Quote Competition
Just another night in another run-down bar.
This was the story of Fenrir Greyback's life, really, since he'd become a werewolf at the age of seventeen. Things had all been downhill since then, but at least he could say that he lived a life that was his own. There weren't people lurking in the background, trying to tell him how to live his life or who he should be.
Who would dare? That thought brought a smirk to his face as he downed another glass of whiskey, gesturing for the bartender to refill it. The man did so without looking him in the eye or showing any sign of recognition. He'd been coming here every other week for a very long time, and yet the man never got too familiar with him.
It was just as well. Fenrir didn't need friends, and he certainly didn't need anybody trying to show the world that he wasn't so scary after all. They would be dead wrong, of course, and that would only end up being messy for everybody involved. His ears caught the sound of a distinctly feminine voice, clearly rebuffing one of the other patrons of the bar.
"Excuse me, who gave you permission to exist?" The voice sounded decidedly irritated, and too soft to belong to the sort of woman who'd be at home in a place like this. He sniffed the air, picking up a new and unfamiliar scent mixed in with the whiskey and sweat. Fenrir downed his fresh drink, setting the glass down on the table and turning slowly on his stool to get a look at the newcomer.
Clearly she thought she was too good for the likes of the men who frequented this sort of bar, and he could see why. He gave her a once-over from his position on the barstool, from her too-bright-to-be-true blonde hair down to the (undoubtedly) expensive clothing and shoes she was wearing. Well, well. This was going to be more fun than he'd thought. Either she'd lived a very sheltered life and wanted a walk on the wild side, or she'd been unfortunate enough to wander into a place she really didn't belong.
Only time would tell which was the case.
He slipped off the barstool, determined that he was going to take this woman down a notch or two. He was completely unaware of who she was, and even if he had known, it can't be certain that he would have cared at all. It wasn't as though he had much of a reputation for her to ruin, after all, and she was hardly a physical threat to him. He doubted she was a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and he was the sort of man that people skirted around and avoided when they saw him in the street.
As well they should, really. There was no telling what a man like him might be capable of, and he'd certainly done enough terrible things in the decade-and-change since he'd become a werewolf for people to cower in fear at the sound of his name. Nobody wanted him to decide that they were a worthy target, because then he'd always hit them right where it hurt. He wasn't the sort of wolf to go straight after them and kill them outright in cold blood. Where was the fun in that? Fenrir wanted to make them suffer first, to have them know that no matter what they tried, there was no way they could stop him. He wanted to make them watch their spouses and children die before there very eyes, until there was nothing left and they begged for death.
Perhaps that was sick and twisted, but that was who Fenrir had been shaped into by the way his life had turned out. He approached the table where the blonde woman sat, looming over it when he was close enough to have the desired effect. When she finally looked his way, a self-satisfied smirk crossed his face. "Don't like the men 'round here, do you?"
She didn't seem as intimidated as he would have liked, and he hadn't yet sensed the telltale scent in the air that would tell him she was scared out of her mind. As of yet, she was unaware of how much danger she was in. She avoided his eyes, sipping her glass of wine and instead eying the man she'd already turned down. "I would hardly call them men. Some of them are little more than beasts." She was far too bold for her own good, if you asked Fenrir, and it was her lucky night.
"D'you have any idea who I am?" He doubted that she did. Either she had no idea who (and what) he was, or she was very good at hiding things. She finally glanced up and into his eyes for a brief moment, before looking away again.
"No, and I don't particularly care." There she went, sipping her wine again and acting as though she was millions of miles above the rest of them. How did she live, with that stick shoved so far up ... No, he wasn't going to finish that thought. He didn't care how she lived. Nothing about her mattered to him, other than the fact that she was attractive and the perfect target for a little fun. By the time he was done with her, she'd know just how vulnerable she really was. That bright red lipstick that she wore like armor wasn't going to protect her from him, that was certain.
"Maybe you should."
"Go ahead and enlighten me, then - why exactly should I care?"
Another patron of the bar took pity on the blonde, a women younger and significantly less attractive. She placed a hand on the blonde's shoulder, leaning in and speaking in a whisper. Fenrir, of course, caught every word.
"Are you mad? That's Greyback. What are you playing at?"
He could tell, by the way the colour drained from the blonde's face, that the realization wasn't a pleasant experience for her. The familiar scent of fear was finally present, and Fenrir breathed deeply. It was like a drug, really, the knowledge that he could cause someone so much discomfort.
"You're -"
"Fenrir Greyback."
The woman pulled her lipstick and a jeweled compact from her purse, slowly and deliberately reapplying it before finally returning her attention to him. "Rita Skeeter," she introduced herself. The name was a familiar one, now that he'd thought about it, though not one that he associated with a woman as attractive as this one. If she expected him to be intimidated by her fame, she'd already failed.
"I'd have expected you to be uglier." An ugly woman who wrote ugly words, after all, but apparently that wasn't the case. She stared, before moving to get up out of her seat. It appeared that she'd had enough of this, and the hulking man looming over her table wasn't going to keep her any longer. He moved in closer, resting his palms on the table and leaning in. "Going somewhere?"
She practically fell back into her seat with a squeak, obviously not having expected the sudden close proximity with the homicidal werewolf. "What do you want with me?"
That was a dangerous question to be asking a man like him. "You'll have to wait and find out, Skeeter. Just do yourself a favour and sleep with one eye open." He was already withdrawing slightly, leaning back and removing his hands from the table.
"It's impossible to sleep with only one eye shut."
"Tell that to a man I scared into sleeping with both of them open. Be seeing you, Skeeter." And with that, Fenrir was gone, sweeping off into the smoky haze that clouded the bar as if he'd never even been there.