Chapter III: She Calls to Us
There was a meagre sliver of silvery moon shining in the sky. That didn't matter; all her forms held some sort of glory. She seemed almost to be a bow. This was the hunting moon, when his blood boiled with the others, not over some lycanthropic desire, but out of their true connection with her. The call was to kill, and he would always obey. How could he not? It was she who ruled his life. And he who ruled them all. Tiny stars pricked the blue-black sky, almost seeming to pulsate around her, entreating her to join them. She never would; instead, she gazed down ever lovingly upon those who were her children.
A cool breeze wafted across the flighty grasses, picking up and then dying down near the expanse of forest behind the ramshackle house. There were snuffs and murmurs from the dark forms littering the ground but nothing was spoken. They were waiting, patient until he moved until he gave some sign to move forth into whatever he had planned.
The sky was a beautiful thing. A frame to the perfection in his life. Claw-like nails scratched through grey, matted hair, easing a sudden itch, a tickle from the grass. Thoughts filtered through his mind as he lay there, unblinking, uncaring, gazing up. They had transformed recently, at behest of her, coming into their right and splendour. The hunt had been without plan but for the blood lust which sprang forth every full moon, the painful shift naught but reminder to what they had to endure to attain perfection. All life was a struggle, wrought with pain and most of it was brought on by him. When he turned, he embraced the agony, enduring it like the warmest of a mate's touch.
He sat up suddenly and shook out his hair, eyes glinting across the land. There was no such thing as pain without pleasure. And usually his pleasure was taken at the pain of others. The heady screams, the warm, sensual spurts of blood as they trickled down his throat. Heated flesh tearing like gentle fabric under the pressure of his fangs, or more often, teeth. The scent of fear dissipating through the air as bodies trembled before him, a feast ready for the taking.
Hunger ripped through his abdomen and he casually placed a hand over his stomach as if that would control the rumblings. But he was hungry for more than just food. As he stood, the rest of the pack perked, eyes all turning to him. The fact that they were all nude bothered, or was even noticed by, none but the newest recruits. Scents, images, the sounds of shrill screams and the pleading for life; this was what flared in Fenrir Greyback's brain as he stretched, rolling his shoulders. How eager he was for more. Slowly the pack stood, the youngest and newest standing last, somewhat nervous. He would give them time to get used to it, to know what it felt to hold power and the truest form of all humans; for what were they but an evolution on the failings of mankind?
But they were still human, or at least, had human traits, left over from their days before this blessing so many called a curse. Fenrir snorted as he flexed his fingers. The fools even went so far as to create a taming potion. Wolfsbane potion, the vilest substance known. What was it about humanity that drove them to control everything they came into contact with? To demand their mastery above all else? Why wouldn't – couldn't – they accept that they were falling behind and a new breed was stepping forth to claim their void? To rip the wolf out of the werewolf . . . why didn't the idiots give Veela a potion to cure their sex drive and beauty? Or clip the claws of Hippogriffs? Why? Why! Rage engulfed him as he seethed, his shoulders hunched, teeth bared. Because, because the wizards and Muggles alike only controlled others when it suited them. They enjoyed the Veela, and didn't care for the Hippogriff. Their dance to mollify the werewolf was an insult, a mockery of all they were.
Oh he was hungry. Hungry to see rivulets of crimson, to see white bone splinter.
"Well, we're in quite the mood, aren't we Alpha?" a voice murmured from beside him, about a foot beneath his ear. Glancing down, he saw one of the elders of his pack staring up at him intently, her dark eyes focused on his.
"Gather the pups," he rasped in return, forcing himself to relax his stance, "we hunt tonight."
What didn't this woman have filed away? The whole of the Ministry was scribbled down on papers, notes, scraps of parchment. And it all needed to be sorted, categorised, catalogued. This was pathetic. Umbridge was beyond nit-picky, beyond a love for the rules. This woman was obscenely obsessive. Delphia snarled as she jabbed the tip of her quill into a little pot of black ink ("Black Delphia! Only black, unless you're underlining, then it must be two straight lines of red, but close together; not so close however that they're touching! Remember!"). Remember she would: remember the way her hand cramped from the endless writing, the way she winced every time she heard that damned syrupy voice which was enough to make your teeth ache. She had gone into this with an abundance of confidence, having seen the woman and dealt with her momentarily.
Then she dealt with her for the rest of the day. A feeling of revulsion swept through her to be quickly replaced by a cramping frustration. If her mother dared – oh, speak of the devil. Merlin's bloodied beard.
"Hello Mother," Delphia murmured as she took her quill from the ink and used her want to fix the nub. She had crushed it slightly, rendering it useless. Examining her handiwork she returned to rewriting a crumpled, smeared page of some ancient, useless statute that seemed so important to the toad-woman.
"Delphia," Preia snapped as she jerked the door shut behind her, causing it to snap as sharply as her voice. Her daughter jumped slightly at the noise and her mother's tone, "Lucius informed me of your tardy appearance. I am not pleased and have had to do some quick-talking on your part." Striding over to her daughter with surprising youth, she clutched her child's narrow chin in thin, strong fingers, pinching a little too hard. Lifting her daughter's face to meet her own, the elder woman scowled upon seeing the aversion of Delphia's eyes.
"You will look at me when I speak to you child!"
A shudder of fear went through Delphia. Mommy's baby boys had done mommy proud, but now her little girl seemed the utter failure. Why was it always this way? Her mother's grip on her increased and she visibly winced, able to feel nervous reactions all the way through her jaw. As the pinching got worse, her mother's nails now digging in, she finally lifted her face to the one who had somehow spawned something gentler than herself, looking her almost in the eye.
"You will repay me for the slight on our family honour, for your irresponsibility and for the fast-talk on Lucius. Do I make myself clear Delphia?" Her words were bitten out with a razors edge, the glint in her pale eyes, faded from their once lustrous blue with age, driving more terror into her child than the pain she was causing her.
Belly spasming as agony sealed around her chest, Delphia began blubbering, having no recourse. "I'm sorry Mother, I slept in Mother, it will never happen again Mother I promise!" The last bit was heartfelt, tears of pain and dread pricking her eyes. Priea hummed in approval, letting Delphia's chin go as she straightened up. Hunching over, Delphia's hand went immediately to her jaw and rubbed all along it, trying to ease the ache her mother had started.
"How will I repay?" she croaked, blinking away her tears. She just wanted to go back to working damn it – how horrible was that?
Another hum as Preia's eyes went thoughtful, her mind racing. A normal punishment would not suffice. No no, her only girl had to be taught a lesson. She had much riding on her shoulders, more than her name and blood, more than her father's memory. If the idiot child would just wake up she would become useful in so many great ways. After the thought passed through her mind, even Priea had the heart to chide herself. Delphia was anything but stupid. If she was stupid, she'd have taken the mark with her brothers to become a brutal enforcer of the Dark Lord's will. Much more was in store for Delphia; so much more.
"I want my manor clean for once," Preia Sonder barked viciously, bringing her finger to her lips as she considered it. "These damned house-elves of ours . . . you," she snarled, pointing her finger at Delphia now, eyes narrowing, "it is your job to get this mansion cleaned. I am giving you a week." Her voice became kind, "Which I think you will find more than fair."
And dragons excellent pets make. Fighting the scowl as best she could, Delphia knew for fact that what her mother wanted done for the already immaculate manse would take at least a month to complete. Even with a full force of house-elves at her beck and call. Why this for punishment? To show Delphia how good she had it if she just didn't slip up? But no, mother's punishments were never one-sided. There had to be a reason for the mansion to be clean beyond clean. Preia was just taking advantage of this situation.
"Furthermore, you will be punctual from here on in." Pausing as she saw some rebellion flicker in her daughter's face, she slapped her, sending her reeling to the floor. "Did I say something to upset you daughter mine?" she wondered with a slight purr in her voice, everything in her body language dangerous, just daring Delphia to speak.
First her jaw, now her cheek. Writhing on the floor as she held her face, Delphia battled her overwhelming urge to sob. Struggling with the lump in her throat, she shook her head as she sat up, attempting to brush the few tears away as inconspicuously as possible. Surely her slightly late appearance when meeting Lucius couldn't have inspired this much rage. What the hell was going on here, she thought as she worked her way back into her chair, ignoring the stinging sensation in her face, the burning heat where her mother's hand had connected with her flesh.
"As I was saying," Preia continued waspishly, sneering down at her child, wondering when she'd straighten out, "you will be on time, if not early which I would much prefer, every day for work, beginning tomorrow. If you fail me, your brothers are learning new curses. Finally, any information you see on the Dark Lord is to be lost, rewritten, or blatantly lied about to play Potter's insinuations down. Am I clear, or should I bolster my point?"
With those words, Delphia looked weakly to her mother, vision swimming. What had she just asked her to do? Watching Preia slip her wand from her robes, Delphia's eyes went wide, knowing exactly how her mother would reinforce her point.
There were failsafes the matriarch of the family had instilled in her children. Even if you knew nothing, or knew that what faced you was impossible, never let your discomfort or anxiety show. To do so was weakness and no one ever had confidence in the weak. No one of consequence, anyhow. Show you were strong and even when you failed, they would believe your bluffs: after all, you had done everything possible and even one such as yourself hadn't succeeded. It must have been quite the monumental task before you.
"Your mansion will be cleaned by the weekend," Delphia said confidently, throwing herself backwards in her chair the lounge, gazing up at her mother studiously. When the chips were down, act like a haughty bitch.
"That's my baby," Preia cooed, chucking Delphia's chin and placing a loving kiss on her unharmed cheek. Standing straight, she exited the room, much more elegantly than she hand entered. When the door closed behind her svelte form, Delphia leaned forward with a groan, burying her face in her arms. What to do? First thing was first; get the house-elves working day and night. Every floor had to be scrubbed until it was gleaming, all the walls in every room wiped down . . . the ceilings needed a good dust and a wipe as well, not to mention every shelf cleaned thoroughly. The fireplaces had to be swept out and she supposed filling them with fragrant branches artistically displayed would work in her favour. Every bit of furniture, every rug, every bric-a-brac; cleaned, swept, dusted, scrubbed.
Looking down at the paperwork on her desk, she gave a derisive snort. Let the toad-woman rot. Like she would notice that all her pointless work hadn't been done in a single night. Delphia could deal with that when the time came. Simpering seemed to work well with Dolores, she would do that. Stacking the papers neatly, making sure to keep what she had already organised in said organisation, she filled her bag then stuffed the quill and ink inside. What she needed was a book and a good stiff drink.
Ohhh, how she praised them. Watching as an ever-present mother, loving and sweet, enjoying their revelry as much as they. She commanded them, through their blood, silently, but ever so much more powerful for doing so. Words . . . words would spoil this perfection. There was no use for such useless jumbled articulations. Only the purity of the soul could ever dare to express what they felt, what she, glistening above them, could grant.
Throwing back his head, droplets of blood flying off his face to the ground, spattering luxuriously to slowly dribble down the grass to be soaked up by soil, Fenrir howled. He howled his joy in the kill, the sweetness of flesh still lingering in his mouth. The beautiful virgin-burst of jugular had been his as he had taken the man down, renting his throat. So gloriously delicious, there was no way to express himself than with her true language.
He howled again, his pack joining in, even the lowest having got a nibble of their prey. All had shared, basked in their hunt. Generosity wasn't a known trait of the wolf, but how could Fenrir deny his pups the taste of their enemy, the blessing she had given upon them. Not tonight, no, he wouldn't hog their meal to himself even though it was his right. All had to feast upon their slaughter, the most delicious meat they stalked. Straightening up, getting clumsily to his feet, still heady with the events of the night, Fenrir spun around as he stared up at the crescent moon.
We are yours and we will forever obey.
Once the house-elves had been set to work, Delphia sat in the library with her favourite book and a shot of Ogden's Best. Quickly downing the drink and shuddering at the taste, then the blast of fire through her system causing even her fingertips to tingle, she lolled in the chair, staring at the far wall. Bloody hell . . . if she had only known growing up was going to be this difficult, she would have killed herself on the last day of school.
Shaking her head clear of these thoughts, she reached down underneath the small table beside her chair and yanked out a bottle of brandy, the stem of a glass between her fingers. Pouring herself a healthy splash, she sipped at it, swirling idly as she crossed her legs up on the overly large chair and cracked open her book.
Infamy of Deeds: a History into the World of Werewolves. It happened to be one of the most interesting books she owned. Rather difficult to find, and even more difficult to get her hands on, Delphia had parted with a good amount of gold deep within Knockturn Alley to buy this little gem. It nearly completed her collection; all she needed was Aübersheir's copy of "Vampires Lurking Amongst Us" and she could say that she was happy with what she had. As it was, what she had was rather substantial. But to find the rest of her books, she'd have to find another dealer. The one she had been going to of late hadn't . . . well, he hadn't been there the next time she showed up. Quick wit got her through that one. She had continued on through the alley and to the Herbologist's, as if she had taken a short cut. Later she had found out that the Ministry had swept down on the shady vendor and had had Aurors staking the area out.
Try explaining that one to mother. A shudder quaked her body, causing the brandy to almost slop. Controlling herself immediately, frowning at her reaction, she knew she had to learn to restrain herself. Moderate, modulate and above all manipulate. How could she convince others of her honesty when her face told all? If her body reacted to a hypothetical, no matter how horrific, how could she face fact and bluff her way through? Oh, if mother had found out about the book, she would have tasted Crucio on that one, that was for sure.
In all reality, she should have been studying one of the even more illegal books bedecking her family library. The one her mother was fond of pressing into her hands was "Jinxes, Hexes and Curses: a Pureblood's handbook to dealing with their lessers". Every upper-class pure-blood family had a copy; it was common fact. Almost all the proper stationed families had got theirs when it was still in publication and completely legal. That status had changed about a century ago, but it didn't stop anyone from reading or using it.
Eyes drifting to the shelf on which the book was situated, Delphia bit her lip. She so wanted to read the chapter on modern werewolf attacks, but she should really try to impress her mother with real study, with progression in her spell casting and repertoire. With a groan, she altered the cover of her werewolf book to look like a text on the Dark Arts and tucked it under the chair. It was as if the need to do well by her mother was calling her, tugging her to the book that would help most. Her feet moved of their own volition, her passion for the forbidden quelled in this need for the encouraged. Crossing the library with barely a hint of recognition as to where she was going, she blinked to find herself across the room. Reaching out to the shelf, her hand closed in on the handbook and yanked it out, flipping it open in a hope to cease this roiling desperation.
What to learn . . . damn it, what did she want to learn? Already she had tried to hone her skill with the curse that caused ones eyes to bleed profusely, only to give her brother a nosebleed. That had been met with much raucous laughter and the curse shot back at herself, perfectly of course. It had taken her mother to end the effects as Delphia's brothers had been rolling on the floor, howling, their eyes streaming as much as their sister's, proving them completely useless. The eldest had been sent screaming across the room with blasts of the Cruciatus, Preia enraged that he would not control his younger siblings and keep a clear enough head to treat an injury, especially when sparring. She had things to do and could not always tend to her adult children's wounds.
There were so many useful things in this book, and yet she could only do a handful with some measure of proficiency. Though, once or twice in her reading, she did find a curse that would have even her brothers gasping for mercy. Oh, that had been delightful fun, finally getting the upper hand, watching as agony flickered through Makrin's eyes, listening to his disjointed pleas. None of them had ever seen or heard of this hex before, but they didn't read much did they? Just the memory of this event was enough to fill Delphia with a sense of power, to straighten her spine and hold her head up high. Striding purposefully back to her chair, she gazed out the massive window stretching two storeys. The moon glistened through the pane of glass, and Delphia just stood there, clutching the book to her chest, hypnotised.
Helloooo there. Just a little bit of Fenrir to whet the appetite . . . Though there is something canon-wise I need to add in, which means editing (which means hopefully a beta, anyone?). So it may take some time for the next chappies. Anyhoo, please review. Reviews make me write, which makes me post more, faster. Really, I'm not just saying that; I'll forget completely about doing anything with the story, not realise how much time has passed since I've done anything and then suddenly a review will pop up . . . which makes me remember oO Between my puppeh and work, I don't have much time for anything else -- We need more DE/Dark Lord/Fenrir lovin' 'round here. Show your support!
BL