Fic: The Reason for Existence || June 2.0
Title: The Reason for Existence
Summary: This was the reason for his existence, he knew. He lived for this. He would die for this.
Characters/Pairings: Fenrir Greyback
Genre: horror, dark
Beta: none
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for violence
Medium: n/a
Word Count: 1,155
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: Yes
If yes, your Tumblr username: heartsamongstars
"Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services. Greyback specialises in children... Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards." - from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Fenrir Greyback growled in delighted anticipation as he took in the cowering children before him. There were three of them this time-three small young lads, none of whom could have been more than eight years old.
And they looked absolutely delicious.
He wasn’t starving, of course. Amycus Carrow had fed him earlier, and his hunger was satiated for the time being. But at the sight of these children, he felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He could smell their fear-a tangy, slightly sweet, and slightly bitter scent that hovered in the air around them, dissipating into aromatic particles that tickled his nose and tested his restraints. It wasn’t time to turn them yet, though, and he knew he had to be patient. But, like every other time, patience was extremely difficult to come by.
He took pleasure, instead, in watching them. His sharp, dark eyes tracked their every move, cataloging every scared, hitched breath; every frightened dart of their eyes; every miniscule twitch that relayed enormous amounts of anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.
They were Muggle children, like the others that had been given to him. He could tell that these boys were related, probably brothers, because they shared the same shaggy blond hair and piercing green eyes. They had no idea what was going on. The tallest of the three-whom, he assumed, was the oldest-was doing his best to comfort his brothers. He had an arm wrapped around each of their shoulders, and he took turns whispering what Fenrir assumed were comforting words in their ear. He couldn’t make out what the child was saying, barely able to see his lips moving quickly against the ears of his brothers. However, the well-meaning words seemed to help very little; the two younger boys continued to sniffle and cry in fear and unhappiness.
He imagined they couldn’t see much in the low light. They were in the lower dungeons of the Malfoy Manor, and the dark and dankness of the cells didn’t bother him in the slightest because his eyes were sharp enough to see in the dark. That had been one of his many enhancements when he had changed, after all. But no matter what little else those boys could see, they saw still saw him. His eyes glowed an ominous yellow in the dark room, and his sharp teeth glinted in the little light that was available. Fenrir knew every single time their eyes fell upon him: a poorly-restrained whimper or soft gasp of fright would betray them. The fear in their scent would spike tremendously.
Fenrir licked his lips, imagining he could actually taste their abject terror on his tongue.
It gave him a heady rush.
Perhaps, many outsiders who were unaware of the situation would find his fascination with their fear abnormal, sickening, or even revolting. Fenrir didn’t understand their objections in the least. He was doing these boys a favor. All of these children, really, if he thought about it. He remembered his life before he had been changed, before this incredible power had been bestowed upon him.
A weakling, he had been. He had always been a very small child growing up. “The runt of the litter,” his father would often call him. He had been the smallest of all of his siblings, and he was picked on incessantly by the other school-children because of his small size. He’d felt powerless, always.
Always inadequate. Always weak.
But no more, he thought viciously. No more the weakling, no more the fucking runt. I’m the master now. And I am happy to share my power with those less fortunate.
The prospect of that first bite made him drool in excitement, and he quickly swiped his tongue over his fangs to catch the droplets of saliva. More time had passed, surely, since he’d been pacing here in front of the boys’ cell. It should be almost time for him to make his move.
They would thank him in the end, he was certain. Of course, they were frightened now, but as soon as his blood hit their veins and the transformation began, the rush of power and hunger would overpower everything else. Fenrir smiled bitterly into the darkness.
Yes, he would be these boys’ hero.
Thanks to him, they would be weak no longer. They would be powerless no longer.
From now on, there would only be victory, and power, and hunger, and strength.
And then he would care for them. He would teach them to hunt, to find their own prey, and to bring more into their pack. Fenrir had been hesitant to join Voldemort’s forces when the wizard had first offered. Wizards could never keep their words, he knew. But it mattered not. Before long, he would have a small army of his own, his own pack of werewolves that he could train to overcome even Voldemort.
None would be powerful enough to stop them.
At that moment, his patience was required no longer.
Fenrir heard the loud clanging of the metal locks scraping as the door to the dungeons opened.
It was time.
Feverish with excitement, he threw his shaggy head back and let loose a wild, long howl that echoed over the stone walls.
Yes. Yes. He had waited days for this. But now it would be worth it-to taste that sweet blood on his lips and tongue, to smell their fear heighten almost unbearably, to hear their shrill screams…
It gave him an orgasmic rush of power, a heady feeling that nothing in this world, that nothing he had ever before experienced, could top.
Lucius Malfoy, that trademark sneer on his face, opened the door to the boys’ cell and dragged them, kicking and screaming, out into the open room. Several Death Eaters had gathered in a circle around them, ready to witness the change of three more soldiers.
Unable to take the anticipation any longer, Fenrir rushed forward and snatched the tallest boy from the other three, his claws digging harshly into the boy’s skin and drawing blood. The coppery tang hit his nose, and he knew nothing else.
His fangs tore into the boy’s throat, a warm, delicious rush of liquid filling his mouth, and harsh screams filling his ears.
Yes. This was the reason for his existence, he knew.
He lived for this.
He would die for this.
Michiko || Gryffindor || 39 points
Summary: This was the reason for his existence, he knew. He lived for this. He would die for this.
Characters/Pairings: Fenrir Greyback
Genre: horror, dark
Beta: none
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for violence
Medium: n/a
Word Count: 1,155
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: Yes
If yes, your Tumblr username: heartsamongstars
"Fenrir Greyback is, perhaps, the most savage werewolf alive today. He regards it as his mission in life to bite and to contaminate as many people as possible; he wants to create enough werewolves to overcome the wizards. Voldemort has promised him prey in return for his services. Greyback specialises in children... Bite them young, he says, and raise them away from their parents, raise them to hate normal wizards." - from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince
Fenrir Greyback growled in delighted anticipation as he took in the cowering children before him. There were three of them this time-three small young lads, none of whom could have been more than eight years old.
And they looked absolutely delicious.
He wasn’t starving, of course. Amycus Carrow had fed him earlier, and his hunger was satiated for the time being. But at the sight of these children, he felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He could smell their fear-a tangy, slightly sweet, and slightly bitter scent that hovered in the air around them, dissipating into aromatic particles that tickled his nose and tested his restraints. It wasn’t time to turn them yet, though, and he knew he had to be patient. But, like every other time, patience was extremely difficult to come by.
He took pleasure, instead, in watching them. His sharp, dark eyes tracked their every move, cataloging every scared, hitched breath; every frightened dart of their eyes; every miniscule twitch that relayed enormous amounts of anxiety bubbling beneath the surface.
They were Muggle children, like the others that had been given to him. He could tell that these boys were related, probably brothers, because they shared the same shaggy blond hair and piercing green eyes. They had no idea what was going on. The tallest of the three-whom, he assumed, was the oldest-was doing his best to comfort his brothers. He had an arm wrapped around each of their shoulders, and he took turns whispering what Fenrir assumed were comforting words in their ear. He couldn’t make out what the child was saying, barely able to see his lips moving quickly against the ears of his brothers. However, the well-meaning words seemed to help very little; the two younger boys continued to sniffle and cry in fear and unhappiness.
He imagined they couldn’t see much in the low light. They were in the lower dungeons of the Malfoy Manor, and the dark and dankness of the cells didn’t bother him in the slightest because his eyes were sharp enough to see in the dark. That had been one of his many enhancements when he had changed, after all. But no matter what little else those boys could see, they saw still saw him. His eyes glowed an ominous yellow in the dark room, and his sharp teeth glinted in the little light that was available. Fenrir knew every single time their eyes fell upon him: a poorly-restrained whimper or soft gasp of fright would betray them. The fear in their scent would spike tremendously.
Fenrir licked his lips, imagining he could actually taste their abject terror on his tongue.
It gave him a heady rush.
Perhaps, many outsiders who were unaware of the situation would find his fascination with their fear abnormal, sickening, or even revolting. Fenrir didn’t understand their objections in the least. He was doing these boys a favor. All of these children, really, if he thought about it. He remembered his life before he had been changed, before this incredible power had been bestowed upon him.
A weakling, he had been. He had always been a very small child growing up. “The runt of the litter,” his father would often call him. He had been the smallest of all of his siblings, and he was picked on incessantly by the other school-children because of his small size. He’d felt powerless, always.
Always inadequate. Always weak.
But no more, he thought viciously. No more the weakling, no more the fucking runt. I’m the master now. And I am happy to share my power with those less fortunate.
The prospect of that first bite made him drool in excitement, and he quickly swiped his tongue over his fangs to catch the droplets of saliva. More time had passed, surely, since he’d been pacing here in front of the boys’ cell. It should be almost time for him to make his move.
They would thank him in the end, he was certain. Of course, they were frightened now, but as soon as his blood hit their veins and the transformation began, the rush of power and hunger would overpower everything else. Fenrir smiled bitterly into the darkness.
Yes, he would be these boys’ hero.
Thanks to him, they would be weak no longer. They would be powerless no longer.
From now on, there would only be victory, and power, and hunger, and strength.
And then he would care for them. He would teach them to hunt, to find their own prey, and to bring more into their pack. Fenrir had been hesitant to join Voldemort’s forces when the wizard had first offered. Wizards could never keep their words, he knew. But it mattered not. Before long, he would have a small army of his own, his own pack of werewolves that he could train to overcome even Voldemort.
None would be powerful enough to stop them.
At that moment, his patience was required no longer.
Fenrir heard the loud clanging of the metal locks scraping as the door to the dungeons opened.
It was time.
Feverish with excitement, he threw his shaggy head back and let loose a wild, long howl that echoed over the stone walls.
Yes. Yes. He had waited days for this. But now it would be worth it-to taste that sweet blood on his lips and tongue, to smell their fear heighten almost unbearably, to hear their shrill screams…
It gave him an orgasmic rush of power, a heady feeling that nothing in this world, that nothing he had ever before experienced, could top.
Lucius Malfoy, that trademark sneer on his face, opened the door to the boys’ cell and dragged them, kicking and screaming, out into the open room. Several Death Eaters had gathered in a circle around them, ready to witness the change of three more soldiers.
Unable to take the anticipation any longer, Fenrir rushed forward and snatched the tallest boy from the other three, his claws digging harshly into the boy’s skin and drawing blood. The coppery tang hit his nose, and he knew nothing else.
His fangs tore into the boy’s throat, a warm, delicious rush of liquid filling his mouth, and harsh screams filling his ears.
Yes. This was the reason for his existence, he knew.
He lived for this.
He would die for this.
Michiko || Gryffindor || 39 points