author: Lucinda
rated t
I do not own anybody that you recognize from the Harry Potter novels - my name isn't JK Rowling.
just a few thoughts on what could have created Fenrir Greyback, one of the boogey-monsters of the wizarding world...
.
Einar Erikson was the product of a long line of Nordic magicals. Most but not all of his ancestors had possessed some degree of magic, but once you got back beyond the mid sixteen hundreds, they'd cared more about their strength of arms than strength at wands. In his father's native Iceland, he was considered both a pureblood and a member of an old and respected family.
Too bad that his father had been irritated at the long days hunting and trapping, at the long winters with mounds of snow, and the bitter cold. In what his father claimed was a reversion to the old Viking tradition, he'd crafted a boat, simple enough for a wizard, and sailed off seeking more welcoming areas. He'd made it to Scotland, where he'd taken up with a hot tempered and buxom local lass who was also from a long line of magicals, and settled into a halfway comfortable life with a bit of fishing, crafting little enchanted toys and trinkets, and using plenty of household and farming magics to ensure that he and his wife could raise their family comfortably.
They'd raised a large brood, with seven children living to adulthood, with two lost to winter and fevers, and one to the ocean. Most had been content to take up lives similar to their parents.
Not Einar. He wanted to do more with is life, to accomplish things, to find a way to regain some of the great battle-magics of his ancestors. To learn how the warrior-mages of old had made themselves resistant to battle, to shrug off poisons and hexes while slicing through their enemies with axes and swords. To be the one who unraveled the secrets of the berserkers and made parts of those abilities useful without the battle-rage. To find ways to enable wizards to rule over the pitiful muggles as things were in the days of old, when mighty chieftains fought and won their lands by defeating brave champions and deadly beasts.
Instead he found himself shuttled off to study werewolves. His father's centuries-old magical heritage in Iceland counted for much less in Britain, and while his mother's family was centuries of magical Scottish, that counted for less than wealthy and puny British wizards. Half-beasts and all bloodthirsty by the full moon, there were few things in Britain as reviled as the werewolves. Being set to study werewolves was often compared to being sent to the Centaur Liaison Office.
But as he studied them, Einar began to appreciate the sheer strength and resilience of a transformed werewolf. They could shrug off poisons, unless made with silver or aconite, and it took a powerful hex to do more than catch their attention. And their jaws could bite through the leg bone of an ox! Such power, such ferocity…
Thinking back to the old stories, Einar remembered that the ancient berserkers had worn the pelts of wolves as often as bears. He might be able to learn a few things with this… Perhaps some sort of old ritual, with runes and the sacrifice of the animal? Blood, sacrifice and runes had been important in the old Nordic traditions.
Einar began to appreciate his work more than he'd ever expected when he'd been given the project. Due to his frequent requests for older studies about the effects of various poisons and hexes, he'd made the acquaintance of Scylla Westmarch, a woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to the Malfoy family. Perhaps not surprising, as there had been rumors that her mother had been the previous Malfoy family head's mistress. These rumors were never officially confirmed, but more telling was the fact that they were never officially denied.
She was attractive in the same way as new-fallen snow, and just as cool. Always calm, as calculating and precise as anybody could ask, and slotted into a tedious job minding records lest her abilities or cool demeanor offend someone with more money. Several people had whispered that the current Malfoy and his sister, now married to one of the Rookwood Family, both disliked Scylla Westmarch, while a few others whispered that such dislike seemed mutual.
He'd never forget the fifth of June in 1903, when she joined him for lunch. He was unwrapping his lunch from waxed paper when she gave a cool smile and spoke, "Einar, I think you and I should marry. You're not unattractive, not related to me as closely as most of the British wizards, and my calculations suggest that we could produce healthy children with strong magical abilities."
When a lovely witch that could easily fill in for the snow-fairies of lore suggested marriage and children, it would take a far, far better reason than not expecting such a proposal to say no. They had a small wedding at the fall equinox, and she confirmed that she was expecting their first child by spring.
Now Einar had a more specific goal. He would unravel the secrets of the ancient berserkers for the sake of his sons, who would become powerful battle-mages. He became even more brutal in his testing. Many in the Department for Regulation and Control of Magical Beasts thought that this was a good way to reduce the numbers of werewolves – they could even contribute something to the world.
One of the things that he learned was that unlike the rare animagi, who kept their own minds regardless of wearing the shape of man or beast, the werewolves developed a wolf-mind. When the moon changed them, the wolf-mind took over from the mind of the witch or wizard.
A combination of strong poisons, unbreakable ropes and a legilimancer gave him the depressing news that most wolves were followers. The reason that they were so dangerous was that they would only follow a stronger predator, and wizards and witches smelled like prey. The stronger wolf-minds seemed to belong to those who had been bitten younger. He wondered if it was a reflection of the wolf growing stronger over time, or a matter of the wolf growing with the body. If the second, then a child could grow to become a powerful, strong willed wolf. A leader among wolves… and among men.
To Einar's frustration, he could not seem to find a way to test this theory. The Ministry kept denying his request, even when he promised to only use muggles as his test subjects. Scylla was quite sympathetic to his troubles. The fact that they already had two healthy sons and a daughter, with another child on the way while her maybe-half brother had been married for ten years and had no child at all made him feel even better.
He had no idea how much that same fact burned at Bellerophon Malfoy. How he seethed and raged that his bastard half sister had produced three children, when he hadn't, to the best of his knowledge, fathered any children, and his only surviving sister had struggled to bear one sickly daughter. Had he known how Scylla's growing family burned at her brother, in addition to being smug about it, he would have realized that Bellerophon Malfoy wasn't the sort to be honest enough to make a direct move.
Instead, Bellerophon Malfoy sent a werewolf to attack Scylla and the children on the full moon in March.
He would never know just how close his plan had come to success. Their daughter would have nightmares about wolves and teeth, and Scylla would bear scars over her left arm from the werewolf's claws. The werewolf had bit their oldest son, and Fenrir would carry scars over his shoulder – had the wolf bit just a little more towards his neck, he would likely have bled to death.
Scylla sent the werewolf's head to her brother in a basket. She'd cast some preserving spells on it and wrapped it in a red cloak with a hood, a cold smirk on her face the whole time.
Einar and Scylla didn't need any words at all to agree that this was on one hand, a tremendous opportunity and at the same time, far too costly. They had no intention of letting the Ministry know what had happened, not about the werewolf attacking them, or Scylla's enraged defense of her children that had permitted her to slay the beast. While it would serve as a potent reminder not to threaten a witch's children, the danger of exposing Fenrir's probable new condition when he was too young to defend himself was too great.
They made sure that Fenrir knew why he had to keep his condition a secret from the cowardly weak wizards. And that he wasn't old enough to rule over the weak willed werewolves. He would grow up knowing that many of the wizards of Britain were weak, soft and lazy from their wealth and magic, unwilling to work hard for what they wanted.
Studying Fenrir in secret had permitted Einar to learn that his son's wolfen half was far stronger, far bolder than that of most werewolves. He suspected that it was from having his nature changed while he was still so young, and had told his son as much.
Fenrir's thoughtful expression would have given other men nightmares.
The year that he turned sixteen, Fenrir left home, a cold, predatory smile on his face. He intended to make his own place in the world, a place won by his efforts. As much as he looked like his father, his words showed that he was truly his mother's son .
"I will be a king among wolves, Father. I will bring terror to the hearts of the lazy wizards, my mother. I will teach them all why the moon and the night are feared."
It wasn't long before a name started being whispered among the werewolves. Fenrir. Whispers that Fenrir was strong, brutal and cunning. Rumors that he had gathered himself a pack.
For his twentieth birthday, Fenrir led his pack against the home of Bartholomew Umbridge. The weak wizard and his pitiful wife had screamed and tried to run, forgetting that they were magical. Forgetting that they should have learned to apparate. Or that if they had barred the door, they might have been able to escape by the Floo. The older daughter and the younger son had been caught and bitten, though not killed. At fifteen and twelve they might be young enough to become powerful wolves.
The younger daughter, little Dolores, had shut herself in a closet, refusing to let her brother in to hide in the maybe-safety. Such a cowardly little worm didn't deserve the power of a wolf. Though being torn to pieces might be fitting for trying to trap her siblings outside to perish…
Fenrir ordered his wolves to take the bitten children with them. If they survived, they would become part of his pack. If they died… If they died before moonset, the pack would dine on them as they had dined on the parents.
Fenrir, now called Greyback, was becoming a name to be feared. His pack held only wolves of strong will, or the young and recently turned, and they all obeyed him. His father's words of the strength of his ancestors still echoed in his ears, along with tales of heroes winning power by battle and killing monsters, such as sea serpents and the dragon Fafnir. From his mother he had learned cunning and the value of a good plan. He wondered if his parents would be proud of what he'd become…
End Fenrir.