A/N: This is my first attempt at a fan fic in a very long time. It turned out...OK I think, but there's always room for improvement. Let me know about your reading experience by submitting a comment.
"Revenge is a kind of wild justice," Gillas used to say. "It is our right as wild outcasts. Our charge…and we must follow it."
This memory of a night some eighteen years ago surfaced once again to the forefront of Fenrir's thoughts as it often did at times like this. It was his teacher's words of wisdom that brought him here tonight, crouched behind a short hedge that bordered his persecutor's house while he waited for dusk to settle into darkness. He wondered what the man was up to inside his safe home. What was he doing at this very moment, before he lost his most precious possession, and his life changed forever?
His eyes wandered from the lit window where the family no doubt resided to a darkened one on the second floor. That was it. Greyback licked his lips desirously at the thought of tonight's prey, innocently sleeping, safely tucked away in his bed. His mouth hung agape, salivating like a dog gazing longingly at a prime piece of steak. It had been so long since tasted human flesh. The boy would be lucky if he didn't devour him entirely, assuming the humans didn't intervene. They usually did.
Fenrir had met the human of this house a week ago, one Quirinus Lupin, a wizard that apparently thought it was wise to insult his kind in front of him. Admittedly he had…pressed the man for his opinions of werewolf policy in hopes that he would stumble, but the result was still the same. And now the man would pay. His only son attacked by a werewolf, those detestable half-breeds that man feared. The boy would be as good as dead after this.
This wasn't different from any of the other hunts he went on over the past few years. He was beginning to develop quite the reputation for them, in fact, which was something that only spurred him to continue, each successful attack driving him further to another one. He was upholding his master's tradition of protecting the werewolf honor. While the old wolfkind preferred to hide cowardly in holes in the ground away from the humans that hunted them, Gillas made his presence known. Fenrir respected his master for that, even after his death.
Clenched in Fenrir's hand pressed firmly against the ground was an item he rarely carried with him except during a hunt. It was a wand he had taken from a wizard that wandered into werewolf territory years ago and its use was still somewhat of a mystery to him. Though his veins ran with magic blood like all wizards, his skill was not combed young; he did not have the cushy advantage of the schooling the fellow in this house did, a fact that he secretly resented to this day.
But tonight, yes, tonight, what little magic he knew would serve him well. Greyback pushed a clump of matted hair away from his eyes before crawling forward only slightly. He was not yet in werewolf form, but his movements as he cautiously inched around the hedge on all fours could be described as nothing but beastly. He eyed the tree in the middle of the well-kept lawn following an invisible line towards the house. At the end of his line was another row of bushes only a few feet away from the back door. It was close enough to slip into the human's den, but not so much that he would be detected.
Fenrir circled the edge of the lawn, his grey eyes continually focused on the house and his ears listening intently for even the smallest sound of warning. The hedge against the house barely rustled as crawled behind it, his muscles tensed in a state of waiting action. The crickets, only just beginning their nightly song, were louder than he was.
Now he had to draw the strong away from the weak in stampede fashion, a wolf tactic frequently used when targeting the young of a herd. He pushed back the ragged arm of his robes. His wand was drawn forward. The lawn-centered tree was in sight. Whispering a spell under his breath, the werewolf watched with delight as the crisp, autumn branches burst into a mass of flames, a form of Greek fire that they would find could not be doused by the usual water charm. It would buy him time. As for now, the moon was about to unveil itself.
Greyback stopped himself from bolting as the back door violently slammed against the house, the two humans racing down the steps towards the source of the flames. He couldn't hesitate, couldn't wait any longer, his head was already beginning to pound in the tale-tell sign of the monthly full moon cycle. He knew once he was transformed, his mind would not be under his control, but under the curse's control and he still had to find the boy. Bounding up the steps, Fenrir entered the humans' den where his prey was protected.
Then, the moon, the yellow ball that served as his lifelong manacles, rose into the new dark sky. As the werewolf sniffed the air, using all his self-control to focus on the boy, he could feel an agonizing pain begin to overwhelm him. But he was determined. He would get his prey tonight. Holding onto the banister of a set of stairs, Fenrir staggered ahead, his mouth beginning to foam like some rabid dog. His teeth were beginning to sharpen and a thick coat a fur grew under his ragged clothes. This wasn't the worst of the transformation.
Panting hard, Fenrir attempted to heave himself over the last step, looking fixedly at a half open door across the hall. His leg, unsteady from the continuing transformation, caught on the rug just as he thought he would make it and with another gasp he stumbled flat to the floor. His prey was ahead. He'd crawl if he had to, just to get to his prey. The long claws of his now paw-like fingers grasped onto the rug and pulled his aching body forward. There wasn't much further to go.
Suddenly, the prey appeared. A small five year old boy with brown hair dressed in a night shirt peeked around the open door ahead. It was obvious that the boy saw him, but he didn't seem afraid. The innocent were never afraid. To them, he must have looked like a kind dog that had hurt his leg and found his way into the shelter of this home. He did look like a dog by now, all except his human mind, on the verge of morphing as well. The boy knelt down and spoke words to Fenrir. He couldn't understand them, but he knew the boy was worried. Worried for his new animal friend, and not at all for his own safety. The boy soothingly stroked Fenrir's head speaking in a manner that calmed the werewolf. This prey was different from the others. He was not only unafraid, but fearless. The young one's eyes spoke of nothing but compassion. As the werewolf's mind was devoured by thoughts of hunger, he had one moment of second thoughts. One moment where he saw himself in the boy, twenty-five years ago. But he couldn't turn back now.