Not a Monster
"Father, you called?" you say, bowing your head.
"Ah, yes." He is stalling the conversation, which is never a good sign. "You see, the fates have decided to create a monster to level the wizarding population again. And he—"
"Needs our kind, yes?" you ask.
He sighs. You know he hates this as much as you do, perhaps more, because he has seen it happening far longer than you have. He is Lycaon, the First Werewolf, and you know exactly what he is asking for. Creating more werewolves for the upcoming war.
"You will go as a human-were, and—"
"I know," you cut him off again. You've done this before, and in this moment, you hate him for putting you through this. In human form, each cursed bite you give to another person takes away part of you — it slowly kills your sanity, your humanity, until you slowly die, or are killed. And the people you turn, they are mere innocents, caught up in fate's plans. It is like choosing a lesser evil when you have to decide whom to turn — and more often than not, you have to take up the greater evil, because even though it is a curse for mortals, lycanthropy gives immense strength and power to destroy to the infected, and this brews up a storm of disaster when combined with twisted minds.
"Son, can you do this?"
It is a great responsibility, a huge burden. One you cannot force upon your brothers and sisters if you can help it, so you nod.
"I'll be Fenrir Greyback," you announce.
Your father stares. "You will name yourself after the Norse monster wolf?"
You let out a humourless laugh. "Yes," you say, "because a monster is what I am going to be."
Thirty-seven.
That's the number of innocents you've passed the curse of lycanthropy to — most of them children. People see you as a heartless beast, and regardless of your pretending otherwise, you agree with them.
Once more you're at the Ministry, pretending to be a clueless Muggle, when a man called Lyall Lupin insults you. As you're let free, you see the fear in his eyes — fear that you'll go after him or his family in retribution.
The worst part is that you will have to, for the sake of keeping up appearances.
The next full-moon night, you transform near his house and creep into the room his son sleeps in. He is a child of around five, perhaps the youngest to fall prey to his monstrosity. Your heart screams at you to flee from here. But you knew situations like that would present themselves when you took up this responsibility.
As your teeth sink into his soft flesh, momentary pleasure courses through your body, and you can't help but be disgusted at the beast that is slowly taking over your mind.
Three hundred ninety-two werewolves stand in front of you, eager to join Voldemort for the battle. All but fifty-seven have been turned by you. Almost all will die today — it is fated for Voldemort to lose at the hands of Harry Potter.
You wonder which side these people would have fought on if not for you. You wonder how many lives you spoiled in the name of duty. You wonder if you're just making excuses for yourself and you actually like being a monster.
All these thoughts leave your head when a battle cry rises from the crowd, and you feel adrenaline coursing through your veins, preparing your body for the coming massacre of humanity. It is then that sane thoughts leave your mind and the beast takes over.
You come back to senses when a spell throws your body to the ground. You turn, and your heart tightens at the sight in front of you. By the wall lies the body of a young girl of about seventeen, covered in blood and claw marks. She's a victim of the animal you have become.
You try to leap to your feet, but something heavy hits your head — it is a crystal ball, you realise as it rolls ahead of you. You turn your head upwards and growl at the thrower.
Standing up, you take a last glance at the bloodied body of the blonde girl and walk in the opposite direction.
You halfheartedly duel as you move ahead, not knowing in the least where your feet are guiding you to. It is then that a sight stops you in your tracks. Time stops as you see the only werewolf who fought for light struck in the chest by a lethal spell, and a scream is torn out from your throat. For the first time in years, you're yourself and not the animal which lives in you. You run towards the man who was the youngest person you ever turned. You cradle his head in your lap. Tears trail down your cheeks as light leaves his eyes.
You cannot handle more of this monstrosity.
The next thing you know, your body is flung into a wall. A man is standing in front of you — an Auror or an order member, you know not — and his wand is trained at your heart. As a cutting curse leaves his lips, your mouth forms two words which are carried away by the wind before they reach him, but you mean what you said with all your heart.
You repeat again: Thank you. And you let the blackness of mortal death claim you.
Word Count: 921
Prompts used:
From Hogwarts Assignments
• Write about someone taking on a great responsibility.
• (Character) Fenrir Greyback
• (AU) Mythology