To Make a Monster
A/N: Written for the International Wizarding School Championship, round 6
School: Beauxbatons
Year: Year 4
Theme: Werewolves – prejudice
Main prompt: 7) [Creature] Dementor
Additional prompts: 1) [Setting] Azkaban, 10) [Character] - Lord Voldemort
Word count: 3,294
They only got one meal a day, sometimes less when the Dementors forgot that humans had needs different from their own. Fenrir preferred the days when they forgot, he would rather starve than endure the torment they inflicted.
Azkaban was so much worse than he'd imagined. He'd thought it would be like living in a nightmare, but the reality of it was closer to Hell. He'd never been much of a believer in that sort of thing. His mother had been the religious one; she'd even named him after an angel in a film she'd liked. He missed her.
Thoughts of his mother had the Dementors swarming toward his cell, as they always did when they sensed a spark of happiness or a glimmer of hope. The feeding was almost constant, that was how it was with new arrivals, and the final battle had brought a lot of those to the Dementors' doors. The crying and screaming were endless now, but over time it would quieten, to be replaced with senseless mumbling and mindless shouting as their minds eventually broke down.
Fenrir would not break, though. He knew this with a certainty that even the Dementors could not take away. Their hold over him was limited, because happiness was not what fuelled his life, hadn't been for a long time. His soul burned for justice, and that was a fire the Dementors could never extinguish.
He would die here. He was not foolish enough to believe otherwise, and he had accepted his fate. But his death would serve a purpose. It had to. His story had to be told. All of it. Perhaps then someone would finally get the message.
They didn't get phone calls in Azkaban, nor a pen and paper. He had to make do with what he did have: four stone walls and sturdy fingernails.
Carving the first word was painful, but he was used to far worse pain than this when he transformed. After the first paragraph, his fingers started to bleed, staining the words red. He didn't stop.
He started at the beginning with his mother's warm hugs and bright smile.
She was a Muggle. His father was a half-blood. They'd both passed away in a car crash when he was nine. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd spent a great deal of time crying after it had happened. The orphanage hadn't been so bad, but he'd been overjoyed to receive his Hogwarts letter. Even more so when he'd been Sorted into Hufflepuff, just like his old man.
The Dementors came to him often during those first few months as he recounted his childhood, but he didn't let it deter him. This was bigger than him, and no matter how often they fed on him, he couldn't let himself stop – for if he stopped, he'd never finish. He had to finish.
He'd been an average student, neither good nor bad, always studying just enough to get the grades he'd needed. In his Fifth Year, he'd joined the Quidditch team. He'd finally hit his growth spurt and had developed a Beater's build. He'd been good at sports; he could have made a career out of it, but he'd had different plans. He'd wanted to become an Auror – like his dad had been. He'd managed to get his grades up to get into the right classes, and upon graduation had been accepted into the Auror Academy. The training had been tough, but he'd muddled through. He'd made a better Auror than a student, not the best, but better than most.
A Dementor brought him food, his first meal in what felt like weeks. But nothing ever came for free, and the payment that the Dementors took was too high. It fed on him for so long that he passed out. By the time he woke, the Dementor was gone, and his meal was cold and stale. He ate it anyway.
After a difficult shift, he and his mates would go for a pint at the Leaky Cauldron. Then he'd go home to his little apartment in Muggle London, and there he'd find Holly, curled up on the rattiest armchair they owned because it happened to be the most comfortable, despite appearances. She'd be reading a book, some silly romance novel that used the most flowery prose to describe the raunchiest things. She would read him a passage about lush valleys and flowers blossoming that made little to no sense to him, then she'd translate it into more realistic terms, which he'd found made for far more pleasant imagery. He'd met Holly when she'd tripped and spilled coffee all over him during the morning rush at the Ministry. She'd blushed bright red and stammered a long string of apologies, and he'd been completely smitten. She'd become the only family he'd thought he'd ever need. He'd made reservations at her favourite restaurant for their one-year anniversary, and he'd tucked the engagement ring in his sock drawer.
But then it had all fallen apart.
Even the Dementors could not steal his sense of right and wrong. The social injustice his people faced was a fiery pit deep in his soul. There was no happiness to it. Only grim determination. He would keep his sanity, a small spark of it at least, just long enough for him to finish his story. He could feel himself forgetting the parts of his life he'd already written down – like a black fog was invading his mind. He carried on.
He and his partner had been on a mundane stake-out. Some guy had robbed a few shops in Diagon Alley. Their suspect hadn't had a home address, but he had had a girlfriend, who'd lived in a bad part of town with her two kids. He hadn't registered that it was the full moon. Why would he have done?
They'd been about to call it a night when the screaming had started. They'd run into the house, found the girlfriend holding a great big knife, her kids cowering behind her, and in front of her: a werewolf.
He'd told his partner to get the woman and the children out of there and to call for backup while he'd kept the beast distracted. It had seemed simple enough at the time; he just had to not get bitten until help arrived. He hadn't lasted five minutes. The werewolf had torn into him. Sharp claws sinking in. Teeth breaking through skin. Saliva mixing with blood. Managing to pass on its infection just as a whole team of Aurors had burst through the door. Fenrir had passed out from the pain.
This was his anchor to reality. His shield against the Dementors. His last mission. This would be his Bible. His story would spread all over the globe, bringing with it equality and justice. He would die, but it was a cause that he was willing to become a martyr for.
The next few weeks had been a nightmarish blur, made worse by the fever. His blood had felt like it was boiling inside his veins as the infection had taken hold. Then had come the first Change. Pain, unlike any other. It had made the Cruciatus Curse feel like a bee sting. It had been enough to bring him back to reality, though, and when the moon had set, he'd been himself again. But that had relieved no one but him. He'd been tied to a bed, unable to move. The healers had refused to answer his questions, had refused to look at him.
Finally, his partner had stopped by to sit with him, and he'd been untied. Fenrir had asked him about Holly, he couldn't remember seeing her since he'd been admitted at St Mungo's. As it had turned out, Holly's unconditional love had had a few conditions after all. He'd never seen her again.
The Head Auror had been the next person to visit him. She'd thanked him for his sacrifice and had handed him a letter of resignation to sign, saying that it was for the best. He hadn't understood why. He was still him, yet everyone had started treating him like he had a terminal illness that might be catching. He'd signed the papers; he'd been too high on pain reducing potions to argue.
He'd gotten himself released a few days later and had gone home to an empty apartment with a Dear John letter lying on his pillow.
The colleagues he'd protected during missions, the guys he'd used to have drinks with at the pub, the pretty woman he'd thought he'd be spending the rest of his life with… they'd all turned their backs on him. They'd all left him over something he hadn't chosen, something that had happened to him, a condition that was forced on him. It wasn't fair.
Fenrir could not waste space on the walls for tally marks to count down the days. Only his transformations marked the passage of time. One year became two, became three. Still, he kept writing. Painstakingly carving each moment of his life into these prison walls. He would die, but he would leave behind these words written in blood.
He'd tried to get a job, but even the most rat-infested shop hadn't hired him. His status as a werewolf had been added to a registry, regardless of his lack of consent, because he'd been working for the Ministry when he'd been bitten and it had gone into the official report. Everyone had known what he was, and they'd shunned him for it.
He'd tried to go to the Head Auror, hoping that she might have helped. She'd owed him that much. But the minute he'd set foot into the Ministry he'd been kicked right back out like a mangy stray. He'd managed to sneak in eventually, but when he'd found her, she'd told him that there was no place for him there anymore. He hadn't let himself feel disheartened. He'd wanted change, and he'd been convinced that with enough willpower and perseverance, he'd get it. He must have written hundreds of letters to the Ministry, none were ever answered.
He'd used a fake name to get a meeting with the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He'd written a speech advocating for werewolf rights; he'd put his heart and soul into it. But the Head and the Council members had taken one look at his scars, and they'd known. He should have realized that those people were werewolf experts, of course they were going to figure it out. But he'd been naive and optimistic. They'd asked him to leave, and he had, although he did leave them his speech, hoping they'd at least read it, even if they hadn't wanted to hear him out. No such luck, though. The Head had shredded the parchment and thrown the pieces into the bin just as Fenrir had left the room.
He'd felt hopeless and downtrodden. No one had been listening. So he'd made them listen.
He was like a man possessed. He slept only when he collapsed from exhaustion. He ate only when he thought that if he didn't he would surely die. Every moment not spent doing either of those things, was spent writing.
The first Council member he'd bitten hadn't survived, but he hadn't let that discourage him. Some sacrifices had to be made for equality and justice. The second one had lived, but he'd been shunned out of the Ministry just as Fenrir had been. That man had been much higher up on the Ministry's food chain than Fenrir had, he'd felt certain that if the message had been coming from one of their own, the powerful would have listened. But they hadn't. He'd realized that he'd have to think bigger if he wanted to see the world change. He would need to create a social movement of such a grand scale that the powerful could no longer ignore it. The Ministry had turned its back on werewolves, but if more of its people were infected, turning a blind eye would no longer be optional. First, he'd thought about biting dozens, maybe hundreds. But then he'd had an epiphany: why stop at hundreds when he could turn the entire population into what he was – because if they were all the same, there would be no more hate nor prejudice.
They would all be equal.
Dementors affected each person differently. Prolonged time spent in their presence caused some to babble nonsense, others to rock back and forth while drooling in a state of constant catatonia. Many screamed their anguish. Azkaban was never silent, it was constantly filled with a cacophony of whimpers, sobs, shouts, and mutterings. But only when Fenrir transformed did he lend his howls to the chaos, otherwise he remained quiet. And that was the effect that the Dementors had on him: the silence of a compulsive obsession. He had started writing to remain sane, but now he could no longer stop. They had turned his coping mechanism against him.
He'd started his crusade, although first, he'd changed his name. They'd be telling stories about him for years to come, for that he'd need a name that held power and meaning, and Clarence Fitzsimmons wasn't it. He'd chosen Fenrir Greyback; one was a great wolf in Norse mythology, the other was the colour of his fur when he transformed. The world had wanted to shame him for what he was, but he'd promised himself, then and there, that he would show them that he was not ashamed. He was proud, and their ignorant opinions would not cow him. They'd turned down all his efforts to make a change, judging him because of what he was. So he would make them all like him. Then finally, they would understand.
His war for social justice hadn't been without casualties. Not everyone he'd bitten had survived, and the ones that had, had often taken the cowardly route out, fearing the stigma of what they had become. But they'd been a war, whether the uninfected had known it or not. It was they who had started it. Their intolerance was to blame.
They were the enemy.
The Dementors were gone. Ministry workers carted them off during the early hours one morning, and replaced them with people. Azkaban became bearable after that. The human guards were cruel and violent, but the pain they inflicted was only physical, and after years of suffering through the Dementors' psychological torture, and the decades of enduring werewolf transformations, their blows barely registered.
He'd bitten his first child. He hadn't meant to, but he was so glad that he did – because something extraordinary happened. Not only had the kid survived, but her body had adapted to the virus faster and better than any of the adults' had. Children were more resilient, even in terms of lycanthropy. When infected at a young age, they were more likely to accept their condition, and that of others, but the real bonus was the effect it had on the parents. By turning their children, their own flesh and blood, the people they loved most on this Earth, into werewolves, he'd taught them tolerance.
It was harsh, he'd known that even then, but equality demanded sacrifice from all.
Years passed. He could not say how many. He did not particularly care. His hands were withered from malnourishment and age. His monthly howls were cracked and broken like those of only the oldest of wolves. He was dying. But he would hold on until the last words were written. He had to.
Lyall Lupin had become a beacon of intolerance. He'd preached against werewolves to all who'd listen, describing them as 'soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death'. He'd changed his tune after his son was turned.
Fenrir had learned an important lesson: oppression won't end because the oppressed ask nicely for it to. Systematic change had to come from within the ranks of the oppressors. People do not learn to be better through niceness, they learn from mistakes, from sorrow, and from heart-ache. They learn from pain. Fenrir would give them that pain. He would help the people who would see him and his kind dead to understand the error of their ways.
The Dementors were gone, but his mind did not recover. His obsession did not abate. He remained trapped in the past, and he would not be free until he caught up with the present.
There had been stories of a powerful wizard seeking change, who'd built himself an army. One day, he'd approached Fenrir with a proposal: a coalition. The Dark Lord had offered Fenrir and his people a place in his new world order in exchange for assistance in destroying the current one.
It's believed that dogs can sniff out disease, the same can be said of werewolves. That man's soul had reeked of corruption and decay. It had set Fenrir's nerves on edge, and had left a bad taste in his mouth. He'd considered refusing the offer. The Dark Lord had been all charm and smiles, but a werewolf knows the difference between a smile and a baring of teeth. That man was not to be trusted, but Fenrir hadn't needed to trust him to use him. They had a common enemy; they would use each other to bring it down, then Fenrir would go back to the original plan.
The Dark Lord had been defeated by a toddler, and Fenrir had not mourned for him. New measures had been taken by the Ministry to protect the uninfected, and Fenrir and his pack had to be more careful.
Nine of his fingers were worn down to stumps; he only had one left, unless he was willing to start using his toes. He had to make it count, he was coming to the end of his story. Soon he would be able to rest.
The Dark Lord had come back from the dead, and once again had asked Fenrir for his support. He'd debated his options, but over the past decade, his movement had not gained as many followers as he'd have liked. He'd said yes. The Dark Lord had been a despot, but his methods had been effective. It had taken him only two years to gain control of the Ministry. But he hadn't released Fenrir from their agreement, hadn't paid the price that was due to all werewolves. He'd insisted that the war would not be won until Harry Potter died. Fenrir had grudgingly agreed to hunt down the boy; he'd found him too. But Potter had escaped before the Dark Lord could arrive to finish him off.
Then had come the final battle, and an army of werewolves, giants, Dementors, Acromantula, as well as dark wizards and witches had been defeated by a bunch of school children and their teachers. The Dark Lord had been killed, and all of his surviving supporters had been locked up. Fenrir among them.
But this would not be the end of him. He had spread the virus far and wide, had recruited many to his cause, not all of whom were dead or imprisoned. They would continue his good work. He needn't cling to life any longer. His legacy was made, his work would carry on. There would be equality, and that was a noble purpose to give his life to.
He signed his work with his name and a bloody handprint – and breathed a sigh of relief. He could rest now.
His masterpiece complete, he collapsed to the cold, stone floor, and he exhaled his last breath, staring at the walls which bore his life story. A story covered in blood, both literal and figurative.
He died at peace.