Short little thing where Remus talks about finding out how exactly Fenrir became a werewolf and why he turned Remus. I wrote it for the Quote competition at 6:30 in the morning after getting absolutely no sleep, so forgive it for being most likely awful. Or maybe I write better with no sleep, I don't know. Review and let me know, yeah?
There are things in this world that don't make any sense, and I don't try to make them make sense.
There are things here that are better left alone.
There are so many things I really shouldn't dwell on, that I don't want to know.
There is something that I don't understand, don't try to understand. I don't want to know why it happened, I don't want to know why it was me, I don't want to know why God hates me so much. He must have a reason, and who am I to judge His decisions?
Wouldn't it be great if I could say those things?
But of course I can't. I'm always trapped in this endless contemplation, the wonder, the puzzlement. The part of me that yearns for knowledge, that wants to understand and know everything there is to know, overpowers the part of me that wants to leave well enough alone. I always find myself wondering how Greyback turned out like he did. Who turned Greyback? Who's fault is it that I'm like this? Where did it all start?
And this natural yearning leads my to books, to try to find it documented somewhere. I search old St. Mungo's records, I look in every library book that has to do with magical creatures, every book that even looks like it could contain old newspaper clippings that could help me figure it out. I ask reporters to investigate, I talk to people who would have known him when - and if - he was a Hogwarts, I do everything in my power.
Nothing.
There is no evidence of Fenrir Greyback ever existing before he joined up with the Death Eaters during the first war and committed all those horrible murders. According to St. Mungo's, he was never born. So, what? He just appeared out of thin air one day?
No, that doesn't make sense. It must be an alias. He adopted that name so that no one could trace him to who he used to be before he joined up.
So I search for name meanings, my logic being that if I can connect any part of the meaning of his name to something that I know about him, than perhaps I can find out if the choices have any ties to any families; of course, he wouldn't conscience-ly pick such an obvious name, but the sub-conscience has a lot more power than we give it credit for.
Greyback. Well, he's a grey wolf when he transforms. There's not much to that one. So I move on.
Fenrir. A monstrous wolf from Norse mythology. Well, he is monstrous, and a wolf. No brainer there. But Norse, perhaps.
It's not much to go on, but I start with that. I look for records of Fenrir Greyback in Scandinavia. It could be that he came from an old Norse family, that he was Scandinavian. I did find one record; a mysterious attack on a small half-blood boy in Reykjavik, Iceland. The victim was never found, but went missing one day, his room covered in blood. They thought him dead. A few years later, an unregistered werewolf makes a sudden appearance on the other side of Iceland, but still in the country, about the same age as the presumably dead boy from the same country, going under the name Fenrir Greyback.
This was it. He must have been that boy who had gone missing! My heart is beating fast. I want to do more research, want to delve into this mystery I'm unfolding, want to know why Fenrir attacked me, why he decided to ruin my life that night. And why didn't he kill me?
But it's best to let sleeping dogs - or wolves - lie. Because little did I know at that moment that I would discover that it was my father. He ruined my life forever with no chance of redemption out of a petty revenge; all because my father landed him a stunt in jail. My father had never really liked me. He had told me that going out at night was dangerous, of course, but he had never stopped me. He had never told me exactly what was going on, exactly how much danger we were in because of this even though he must have known! Greyback's escape was all over the newspapers, there was no way he couldn't have known. He didn't even tell my mother until after the fact, and he was not sorry. There was not a bit of remorse on his face when they brought me to St. Mungo's and the nurse broke the news to them, he never looked as haunted and pained as my mother did for months afterward whenever he looked at me. I used to think he was strong. I wanted to be more like him. Now I'm glad I'm not and hope I never am.
There is something that I don't understand, don't try to understand; after all, I never will. I will never, as long as I live, ever understand why my father never loved me.